Meteora
by solsixtus
Summary: Columbia is new, a fledgling eaglet spreading her wings, but there aren't always clear skies. For Robert and Rosalind, keeping the city afloat relies on their willingness to find and keep Columbia's secrets.
1. Prima facie

**Chapter 1: Prima Facie**

_"At first appearance."_

* * *

**_December 6, 1894_**

_Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?_

Tolstoy's text garnered a slow smile from Rosalind. It was possible, oh yes, but only if the _impossible _was achieved first—the impossible being, of course, that one rip a hole in the fabric of reality to meet another version of themself.

_Herself_, she corrected.

If the laws of the universe could bend to her will, so could grammar. _She_ had created the device, and found someone who understood her more than she did herself. And she understood him. Most days. There were anomalies, but they were slight; an extraneous scar here, an acquired taste there.

The differences between her and Robert caused her no grief, only intrigue. He was marvelous; truly extraordinary in ways she could only comprehend within herself, without form or language. The manner of it rose from different things. Often they were mundane, like tapping his brow the same time as she, starting a staircase on the same stride, or arranging utensils by size and not usage. And there were instances that were overwhelming, like when she lay still in the silence of night, and the pitching of the city in the air is the only remedy when the doldrums of thought seized her mind.

She had listened to Robert describe it once, a year ago, when the dissonance of his mind plagued him frequently in the newness of his arrival, and she knew then, that she was bound to this man in a way she could not be to any another.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden clamor from the parlour; the sound of the door opening roughly, a frock being draped on the coat hanger, footsteps running up the stairs.

"Rosalind?"

"Drawing room," she answered, sitting up straight from her recline on the couch. With a sigh, she closed _Anna Karenina_, not bothering to mark her place. Once she set down something, she was bound to never pick it up again unless it caught her interest once more. This novel was mildly interesting to her at best. She stacked it on top of two others on the end table.

Robert entered in a mad dash, nose, lips, and cheeks reddened by the winter breeze. The effect made it quite difficult to discern if he'd been running. Either way, he was in quite a mood to tell her something immediately.

"What is it?"

He sniffed. "Have you seen the papers?"

She glanced at the growing stack of unread issues of the _Chronicle_ near the stairs.

Robert followed her gaze and made a noise of annoyance. "_Of course_. I'll just tell you then," he said, offering her a crimson bottle before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. "Fink's made another one."

Rosalind leaned forward to examine it properly. It was heavy, like a full bottle of antiseptic. She fiddled with the tag and arched an eyebrow. "Devil's Kiss?"

"_Just in time for Christmas,_" he added sardonically, rubbing his hands.

"Theatrical." Right down to the nude succubus seductively breathing fire. Prurient, like its predecessor, Possession. No doubt a great many gentlemen enjoyed handling the bottle.

Finally warmed up, Robert moved to sit beside her on the couch. "That's not even the half of it. It allows one to generate balls of fire and project them."

She looked up at him, slightly alarmed. "Project them at what?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Exactly."

"Hmm," she sounded, examining the bottle again. "I don't like it. I don't like the spread between this new product and the last."

When Jeremiah Fink had first introduced his newest product, these _vigors_, not two months ago, she and Robert were wary. Of what, exactly, they were unsure. They were less concerned with the effects the vigors gave, and more with what the vigors _are_. Fink was a businessman and an opportunist, that much was certain, but the delicate balance needed to refine something of this caliber was beyond Fink's talents. And theirs, currently.

Robert seemed to pick up on her thoughts. "Perhaps he's hired someone?"

She glanced at him, unconvinced. "Perhaps. If that's truly what's going on then, I also wonder how much he's paying them to put his name on the product?"

"Indeed."

With a final glance and decidedly contemptuous frown, Rosalind placed the offensive bottle on the table, ending their conversation about it.

"Enough of that, then. Now that you're here, we can continue working on our infusions. Have you the list from the botanist?"

He looked confounded for a moment before getting up from the couch so quickly, his knees creaked.

"Ah! My apologies. I was in such rush, and the crowd for that vigor in front of the apothecary caught my attention. I'll get them right away," he said, and before she could answer, he was out of the room and back in the parlour putting on his coat.

Rosalind sighed. He was like a young boy sometimes, and she his mother; all the unbridled, gregarious parts of her.

"Don't forget about the apothecary as well," she called out to him.

"_Yes, Mother," _he drawled, but she heard the smile in his voice. "I shant forget."

The corners of her mouth tugged upwards. "I shall have to scold you if you do."

Robert chuckled, and it grew faint as he stepped out into the foyer. When the door shut, leaving her in solitude once more, she took a mental triage of the drawing room. Their infusion was on hold until Robert returned, and the equation on the blackboard near the window annoyed her with its blank variables. Her novel, perhaps? Resignedly, she looked to the table where she set it down, finding instead, the tawdy libation blowing its fiery breath in her direction.

Rosalind thinned her lips, grabbing the vigor and heading towards the kitchen. _Robert had better get back soon_, she grumbled to herself.


	2. Bis in die

**Chapter 2: Bis in die**

_"Twice in a day"_

* * *

Rosalind's threatening promise left him in a better mood, far better than it was moments ago mulling over Fink's sudden and enigmatic inspiration. _Any_ interaction with her, though, tended to have that affect.

"Stepping out again, Mr. Lutece?"

Adjusting his scarf, Robert smiled at their most recent hire, Gwendolyn Marlowe, who by her own account, impressed him enough for the job with her poise than her familiar connection to one of the city's Founders did. By his measure, she was not intimidated by himself or Rosalind, and she had a tolerance for the peculiarities of their work that most women—indeed most _people-_- of her class did not possess.

Still, she'd been in their employ for only a week, so the true measure of her character and assistance remained to be seen. Regardless, she was doing an excellent job in her duties as secretary.

"For the same thing, actually, yes," he told her.

"Are you sure it's not anything I can do for you?" she asked for a second time that afternoon.

"Quite positive, but thank-you so much."

Like earlier, he had to decline—not for lack of trust, but these errands were sensitive matters pertaining to their most recent project. Considering Fink's vigors were encroaching into similar territory, he had to remain cautious. He thought he caught disappointment tugging at the corner of her mouth, but he looked to the front door instead of confirming it. A woman distraught was not something he could stand for very long without rectifying the situation.

The biting, winter chill seemed to creep through the dense oaken doors, and he reconsidered Miss Marlowe's offer when he reached them.

"Well," Robert started, noticing at once her dark features brightening. "I suppose there _is_ something you can do for me, Miss Marlowe."

She straightened in her chair behind the front desk. "Yes?"

"You may head home if you like. I know it's early, but the weather is quite disagreeable for the hour. I'd hate for you to be caught in it should it get worse."

"Oh." Glancing at the clock, she was surprised at the hour. "Thank-you. You're too kind."

Robert dismissed her praise saying, "I'm just being realistic." Truly he was. There was no exaggeration needed for what was only the right and logical action. And of course, he also did not want them all to be on the wrong side of her uncle. "Do you need an escort?"

She smiled demurely. "I'm sure my uncle would insist, but I am quite capable of getting home on my own. Again, thank-you for asking. I'll leave once I've tidied up."

"Very well," he acquiesced, tipping his hat to her. "I shall see you tomorrow then, Miss Marlowe. Have a pleasant evening."

"And you and Madame Lutece, sir."

With that, he braced himself for the sharp gust that greeted him when he opened the doors and stepped outside. There were many winters he'd experienced in his lifetime between New England and Britain, but none like Columbia. Upon further examination of that statement, he corrected that _no one _had until last year. He hadn't spent much time outdoors then, as he was still recovering from his _travels—_vocabulary courtesy of Rosalind.

Stepping off the porch, he wondered if all winters at this altitude would be so harsh. If that was the case, surely he might reconsider living here. He pulled the lapels of his frock tighter around himself, scoffing. _And surely_, the weather was affecting his mood. Miserable and cold as it was, the blizzards only last a few weeks in comparison to the agreeable rest of the year. He stepped lively in the snow now, for they were remarkable steps which no man could have taken were it not for a woman.

He smiled, the cold quickly seeping through his teeth. A truly _remarkable_ woman.

She had broken the walls of reality to share her achievements, her Creation, her _life _with _him_. How could he ever leave it, this marvel that had the entire planet entranced? This Eden where he was their Adam, and Rosalind their Eve? There would be no Fall, not when it was they who offered the Fruit to God.

_But that was quite enough of _that_, _Robert chided himself. How easy it was to lapse into this religious folly, this illusory amazement the population held.

_Quite _easy, when every man and woman fawned over their cleverness.

'_Good day, Mr. Lutece.' 'The finest seats in the house for you tonight, Mr. Lutece.' 'Might you enlighten us with your metier, Mr. Lutece?'_

If he'd encountered them in his universe, in his life before Rosalind, they'd have never given him a second glance, and the knowledge of that truth was perhaps his driving reason for ensuring Columbia's legacy. He pondered about it most days, when it was silent enough, or Comstock's preaching loud enough. And perhaps it was for the better. The man's alternate self was accruing massive debt and deadly vices; a terrible situation for a new life to enter.

In many ways, he and the girl, this _lamb_, were the same; saved by grace. Selfish, selfless grace.

At that allegory, he stopped his musings, for he was not wont to compare dear Rosalind to _Mr._ Comstock.

The crowd in front of Harper's Family Pharmacy had whittled down from the brouhaha of twenty minutes ago- seems even the fiery concoction couldn't keep men outdoors for very long in the Columbian winter. Still, Robert made no effort to make himself known to the crowd once more. He slipped unnoticed into the establishment, brushing the snow off his shoulders and hat.

"Mr. Harper," he started, with a curt nod.

The apothecary of Harper's Pharmacy was an older gentleman who was as sharp as he was meticulous, and every vial and ampoule, every brass scale and mortar and pestle, was in its appropriate place. There was no room here for Fink's vigors and salts between the carefully labeled lineaments and elixirs. His lips spread in a slow and calculated smile.

"What do you require today, Mr. Lutece?" Mr. Harper asked behind the counter.

Robert pulled the note with Rosalind's neat handwriting from the safe confines of his pocket and placed it between them.

"A few items for a personal project." A pause. "I'll have your discretion?"

Glancing at the paper briefly, Mr. Harper unclasped his bony hands and set his palms flat on the countertop, holding his gaze more strongly.

"_Always_, Mr. Lutece."

The absence of Fink's products on the shelves helped solidify the statement, and Robert sealed the confidence. "I appreciate it."

With that, Mr. Harper reached for the note and swept his eyes over it once, frowning slightly. "The dittany won't be in until January."

"That's fine." He and Rosalind could hold off that part of their work until then.

"Very well. I'll place a reserve for you." He procured a thick moleskin ledger from under the counter, and when he opened it, fluidly and gently, Robert was awash in the ancient scent of the pages. An elaborate '_R. Lutece'_ became the most recent addition of the hundreds of names listed in black lettering. It was not the first to appear, but its frequency in the book was increasing as of late.

Mr. Harper completed the last of his records, smiling as he closed the ledger. "I'll be but a moment," he told Robert, and began to move quickly throughout the shop, gathering the remaining items from the list.

He moved to a catalog that existed only in his mind, because Robert had many times, including now, tried to follow the classification system the man had created for his shop. _Lineaments, elixirs, infusions, extracts, tinctures. Tinctures with alcohol as a solvent; with vinegar, with glycerol._ Those were just a _portion_ of the solutions on the shelves. There were still herbs and botanical material. _Valerian, violet, lavender, marigold, nightshade. _All further categorized by their physical state; _ground, grated, full roots, diced. _Then there were balms, cremes, resins…

He suspected they were further divided by their country of origin, and that's where he stopped trying to decipher Mr. Harper's elaborate organization. It wasn't as vital to him as the elements he needed themselves, and the apothecary placed them all in a brown package wrapped in twine.

"Here you are, Mr. Lutece. My warmest regards to your sister," Mr. Harper said. "Shall I continue to send a statement at the end of each month?"

"If you would? I can pay in full if you prefer." Rosalind and he were well respected in Columbia and the insistence some citizens took to give them exceptional convenience was something he was not used to- _Rosalind_ maybe, but not him. This was her universe; he was still assimilating into it.

Mr. Harper pushed the package toward him. "The bill is fine. Best of luck for with your project results," he said, and Robert knew then, that the man did not often make accommodations for even the finest Columbians. There was sincerity and genuine interest, and he took that to be a shared profession of the sciences.

With this new understanding, Robert gave his farewell. "Thank-you very much, Mr. Harper. Rosalind and I are very much in your gratitude."

"Have a pleasant day."

"And you," Robert replied. He placed his hat back on and braced himself for the cold once more.

* * *

He had been right; the weather had worsened as the afternoon stretched on. It was good that he was done with his errands and soon to return to the warmth of his—_their_—home. The language had not yet set upon him completely, as was the prospect of returning home to someone. Still, the prospect was unlike anything he had ever experienced; thrilling—in a way he imagined a married man might return to his wife, only the woman who awaited him was his complete counterpart.

Robert's lips quirked as he walked up the steps of the porch. To him, she eclipsed every woman in this universe and the next—a truer statement if there ever was one.

He found the foyer empty, which was good. Miss Marlowe had heeded his suggestion. Her early dismissal was perhaps a better blessing for her, because Rosalind tended to get a bit _miffed_ when she started experiments and there were people around. He hoped she'd warm up to Gwendolyn. He was getting _equally_ miffed having to find a new front girl every week. But he digressed. Perhaps if he had been a female, being fussed over by Mother and cousins and maids, he would have the same predisposition as she.

He began to remove his outer wear and draped them on the coat hanger.

"I'm back," he called out.

"Kitchen," came her reply-soft, at normal speaking volume.

There was a bustle of pots and jars, and he headed towards it, detecting the faint scent of smoke and something else he couldn't identify—meat, perhaps. Was she attempting to prepare a meal? Surely she wasn't starting work on infusions yet.

"Rosalind?"

She didn't answer, and he thought he heard her sigh and what sounded like broken glass shifting across the floor. A sudden wave of dread washed over him and he nearly sprang down the hall towards her. "Rosalind!"

When he finally entered the kitchen he found her leaning on the median. The air here was full of a thin haze, the sink with bits of charred material, the floor with the remnants of an alembic.

She scowled at him, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Somehow, in the midst of the chaos, she still appeared in control of the situation."You didn't have to panic, Robert."

"Are you…alright?" he asked, suddenly feeling foolish. What had he thought he'd find? An emotion he'd never experienced before had gripped him so terribly when he had thought she was hurt. It was almost innate, a compulsory _imperative _of his being that left him spent and disoriented.

He went to her side at once, hand on the crook of her elbow to aid her, and he found he breathed more steadily.

"I'm fine," she muttered, but continued to let him hold her.

"What happened?"

Rosalind stood up straighter with his support, gesturing with her chin irritably at something on the median. He knew the devilish jar immediately, and his lips twisted into a frown. He'd seen quite enough of it this afternoon.

"Did you drink it?"

She brushed him away then, and started tidying up. "Possibly."

"Does that mean likely?" he pressed.

He disliked the demeanor she adopted when she wasn't in the mood to discuss matters, and he clenched his jaw because he recognized that he did the same. He knelt to assist her in picking the glass off the floor. There was a moment of silence between them, only the sound of clinking glass, but she finally relented.

"It means-"

She paused suddenly and they both heard the sound of the parlor door opening and shutting.

"Hello there!"A boisterous voice boomed throughout their house. "Pardon the intrusion, but the front desk was empty."

Rosalind eyed Robert and he shook his head. He had no idea who the stranger was.

Helping her up, Robert led the way to the parlor, and even from down the hall, the man's mustache and harsh features were telling of his identity. He glanced sidelong at Rosalind to share a look of concern with her before greeting their visitor.

"Good evening, Mr. Fink."

* * *

_A/N:_

_Some questions:_

_Why has Fink stopped by their residence?_

_What was Rosalind doing with the vigor? Why?_


	3. Sapere aude

**Chapter 3: Sapere aude**

_ "Dare to know."_

* * *

Her brother was always more polite than she, especially when it came to visitors, but she simply had no time—or _patience_, rather—for pleasantries. So while he had greeted Fink, she would be direct.

"Mr. Fink, I'm a bit astonished to ask why you're here." Of all days; of all the _hours_ in this day, he chose _now _to arrive. Unannounced, unattended. He had better have a damn good reason for it. She was in no mood. Especially not when his eyes wandered, recognizing his generators in the corners of the room, following the wires to their destination in the main part of the house.

Fink bowed, slightly, and the keeping of his hat on his head did not go unnoticed.

"Please forgive my, ah, intrusion," he started. He looked between the two of them, considering their state; Robert's weathered flush and her tousled hair. "Am I interrupting something?" There was a quirk at the corner of his thin lips, discernible with the perking imbalance of his mustache.

"Nothing too important. Necessary trial and error, you understand," Rosalind brushed aside.

He nodded at their mutual work ethic. "All too well, my dear."

She was less irritated with his insinuations and more with his keen and interested eyes leering the Contraption. Robert seemed to be as well, for he cleared his throat and shifted to block the man's view.

"Let's discuss this in the drawing room," he gestured of the empty and private room to their right.

"No need," Fink brushed aside, just as deftly. "I'm just dropping by to give an invitation for the Christmas Ball. Flambeau's off taking care of affairs and I was visiting Comstock to discuss arrangements for the gathering and all that." From his inner coat pocket he retrieved a finely decorated envelope addressed to both of them. "Why, I told him that since I was, ah, in the neighborhood, I'd drop 'em off myself! Your appearance was sorely missed last year. Figured I try and convince you two this time."

The _Christmas Ball? _Rosalind actually raised her eyebrows at the unexpected news as she took the invitation from Fink.

"Yes, well, it was unfortunate that Robert was still recovering last year from his travels. I very well couldn't leave him to his illness while I took part in festivities." Partially a truth, and partially a lie. The main reason she had not gone was because she simply did not want to.

"I'm very much in better health since then," Robert interjected, eying her pointedly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. _Really?_ She was sparing him from the trivialities of public social events.

"So you'll come?" Fink actually sounded excited. "It'll be a grand ol' time. I can vouch for it."

She glanced at Robert, letting him answer.

"Most certainly."

Fink clapped his hands together. "Good to hear!" he grinned, though she only saw it as a baring of teeth. "Well! I'd best be off. The weather's wailing like a son of a gun."

"Yes, absolutely dreadful. I was out there myself not fifteen minutes ago," Robert said, moving towards the parlour door to open it for him.

"Ah! Bet you've got your plate full then, making sure every thing's fine-tuned in these temperatures. I've got Flambeau making rounds doing that very thing."

"Mmm. This week's only been one minor incident, so that's a blessing."

Rosalind remained in the doorway of the parlour, and with distant regard, she observed the men conversing in the foyer. Professionally they got on quite well with Fink; the strictest of work ethics, the most efficient pragmatism. Their roles in the city were very similar, in that they were responsible and vital for its function. But there, the similarities ended. Their necessity to cooperate with Fink on all matters Columbia was just that—a _necessity_. She had no interest or desire to know him unprofessionally.

He was aggressive, presumptuous, obstinate. He was a _whole manner _of things she did not care to consider, but he was also insatiable, and of that trait, she took very careful notice. There was a balance to be held with him. Intentional provision had to be given at the appropriate moments to keep his curiosity tamed.

"Our observations from last year should help it stay within those parameters," she added to the conversation. "At least we have estimates to work from now."

His dark eyes flicked to her and he spoke with enthusiasm. "_Yes,_" Fink agreed. "I can't _bear_ the intangible. I've got to have something in my hands to grasp. Gotta have papers and numbers and prototypes. Otherwise nothing gets done."

Robert and she hummed their agreement in unison.

A brief silence fell as the three of them no longer had anything to discuss, business or otherwise. The wind whistled through the door, bringing in a seeping draft.

Fink fetched his pocket watch from his vest, glancing at it. "Well. I really _should_ be going," he said again, extending his hand to Robert and giving it a good pump. He tipped his hat to her. "Madame. Again, do forgive the intrusion."

It was Robert who answered, thankfully, and he gave the man a polite smile. "It's not a problem. We appreciate the gesture. Have a good day, Mr. Fink."

"And you," he replied, finally stepping out into the cold.

Rosalind made very certain the front door sealed well, and she pursed her lips first at the empty desk and then at Robert.

"Why is the front desk unattended?"

The unexpected visit could have been handled much better if Miss Marlowe had been here. Hadn't he _insisted_ they hire her? And where was she? This was exactly the reason she did not want extra help if she was to be concerned about their competency for the simplest of responsibilities. Quite disappointing as well. She had higher expectations of her—not too terribly high—she was a relative of a Founder, after all—but even then, nepotism had not garnered her the position in their residence.

"That is my fault," he replied. "I dismissed Miss Marlowe early."

"For good reason, I presume?"

He scoffed, looking slightly offended. "Of course. The weather is terrible." He brushed past her in the doorway. "Don't think I've _forgotten_ about that blasted vigor."

She followed him as he passed her. "I wasn't thinking you had, but while we're on that, what do you make of Fink's visit?"

He shrugged. "Fairly straightforward, I'd say. And brazen."

"I hardly believe _convenience_ was his true intent. He's very punctual that man; very meticulous. Nothing is ever out of place. He obsesses with that pocket watch of his."

"Clearly, we are worthy of his time. Especially on the day of his vigor introduction."

"But what does he _want_," Rosalind muttered irritably. She despised games; she despised losing. Fink had had the upper hand this time.

"He _wants_ to see our reactions, our machines." Stopping to fall behind her, he let her enter the main room first on their way to the kitchen. "And on that note, this door should stay closed at all times."

"Or rather," she put forward, "Uninvited guests should not enter our house of their own accord."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "Or both."

They entered the kitchen again, back into the jumble that was the result of her experiment with the vigor. It was understandable now, slightly, his reaction to seeing her. A very sharp odor of smoke and what she knew to be her flesh hung in the room. She glanced down at her hands, noticing for the first time that they were reddened and cracked at the finger tips. Interesting that she not aware of them until now.

"So then," Robert started slowly, rolling up his sleeves, "Are you going to wait for me when you perform a possibly dangerous experiment, or do I have to worry constantly about being separated from you for bouts of time?"

It was her turn to scoff. "None of that, now. You'd have done the same."

"Yes, but I'd have waited for you," he shot back, lips thinning. For a long second, he simply stared at her, and her mood softened at the complexity in his eyes. He sighed and knelt to continue clearing the glass on the floor.

With a sudden understanding, Rosalind knew she had been ignorant of his feelings. He was her, but more often than not, she was less mindful that he was equally not her. Placing the invitation on the median, she retrieved the wastebasket to help him.

"I'm…sorry for not waiting, Robert." She was not so good at making apologies.

Robert paused, looking up at her.

"And for…for worrying you." She waited with bated breath, because she was also not one to forgive so easily.

A half-smile formed on his face. "In your defence, you _did_ appear to have the situation under control."

She mirrored his smile. "Does it help also that I had not _originally_ planned to ingest the concoction?"

"It does," he said, resuming his work. He chuckled. "Idle hands are the devil's playthings."

Reflexively, she curled her fingers to hide them from his sight, but the motion only drew his attention.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, already seeing a frown tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Nothing? Then why are you hiding them? Let me see," he said sternly, and he reminded her briefly of their father.

With reluctance she let him place both his hands on hers and turn them to examine them. His thumbs brushed over her palms and fingers. The examination was light, but it stung unexpectedly and she pulled away.

"How painful?"

"Not so much," she lied.

"Now don't give me_ that_."

She had just discovered the true extent of the pain, and a swell of anger formed within her because of the pain and of her stupidity. Their work would fall behind, she would have to rely on Robert for the simplest of things while her hands healed-

Not wanting to meet his eyes, she looked to the window behind him instead, shaking her head. "It was foolish, I know."

"You are never foolish," he said calmly. He stood up and went to retrieve the stool on the other side of the counter for her to sit on. "Your curiosity simply got the best of you. And that is never a bad thing, especially when it's our best quality."

She thought she heard a smile in his voice when he said the last sentence, and she looked up to give him one, but he kept his back to her as he filled a bowl with water at the sink. Rosalind sat on the stool, feeling something like dejection. She did not often care when someone gave her a cold shoulder, the occurrence being quite frequent because of her profession and gender, but with Robert… it was such a terrible, terrible feeling.

"Are you cross with me?" she said quietly to her hands. She studied them more carefully in her chagrin.

The faucet shut off, and he was silent as he walked back to her, placing the bowl on the counter. "No."

Though he had finally answered, she continued to avoid his gaze and dipped her hands into the water. She seethed as the liquid chilled and seeped into her fingers. It would only be worse tomorrow.

"Are you with _me_?" Robert asked suddenly.

She furrowed her brows and glanced up at him. "No. Why?"

He reached across for the invitation she had placed down. "I know you don't want to go."

She watched him open it and go over the details. Perhaps it was the pressing of his lips together at the thought of some ill memory, or maybe it was the way he handled the invitation, but she had a flash in her mind's eye that social invites had not come often in his universe. And here, she was denying him the opportunity. She looked away, unable to bear his expression.

"Well, I _didn't_," she admitted.

"So we are going? The both of us?"

Rosalind turned to him again. She could not refuse the boyish excitement in his eyes, and she found herself smiling as well. "I never would have gone without you."

* * *

_A/N: Hrrm, a bit domestic, this chapter._

_Some questions:_

_-Fink's plan, er, visit revealed! Why the personal delivery?_

_-Christmas Ball. Good or bad or both?_


	4. Fluctuat nec mergitur

**Chapter 4- ****Fluctuat nec mergitur**

"_It floats and doesn't sink."_

* * *

**December 12, 1894, Wednesday**

_Haste denies all acts their dignity._

_Unless,_ Robert added, hastily clasping the buttons on his waistcoat together, _All dignity has already been _lost. And it had. Or perhaps he was being capricious, because his face would go unshaven this very cold and early morning. If last week had been incident free, barring that minor fluctuation of Locke Center reactors, then this week certainly made up for it. The past five days were a frenzied blur of late-night telegrams, inspections throughout the city, and hours spent adjusting and reworking formulas. A cold front on the tails of the snowstorms last week had brought along a frost that threatened more than just stark weather. When the temperatures dropped, and the reactors began to ice over, so would the city. Rosalind's curiosity with the vigor had only made the numerous developments much more difficult to handle. With her hands in bandages as they healed, much of the legwork had fallen to him.

Let it not be said then, by Dante or anyone else, that he was diminishing his quality of work simply because he had thrown his utmost attention into it and not into the sharpness of his appearance today. How fitting the prose was from the second book of his Comedy, because to his exhausted eyes, their Paradise was Purgatory.

The bell pull rang again for the third time in five minutes. Certainly, their residence was the only one in Columbia where the hired help had to notify the owners they were needed.

He rapped quickly at Rosalind's bedroom door across from his. "I'm ready. Do you need help?" He waited for her reply, noticing his shirttail hung over the top of his trousers. Robert made a small grumble as he shoved it into neatness. Instead of her voice came footsteps, and the door flung open.

To his surprise, she was almost fully dressed. Over these five days, he'd helped her get dressed, amongst other things, since she was limited in her ability to perform actions that required fine dexterity; simple things like buttons on blouses, ties, and corset lacings. The arrangement had never been uncomfortable—she was always modestly dressed—but it was a new set of limits they had created. He was still dressing a woman—even if the woman was himself.

She scowled at him, as she did then, slipping the tongue of her tie into a knot. "I can manage," she said, finishing it. It was slow and loose, and he itched to straighten it for her-

"-Go! I'll meet you downstairs."

"Right," he nodded, already heading to the stairs. He looked over his shoulder at her. "And if it's an emergency?" As it probably _was_ this early in the morning.

"I won't be too long, but if it is, go without me. Take Miss Marlowe if she's down there," she waved dismissively.

Robert raised an eyebrow, but nodded as he continued down the stairs, two at a time. Mother would have chided how very _proletarian_ it was, but surely even she would give pardon to his habit when a city was falling from the heavens. At the last flight of stairs, he took to adhering to a more appropriate stride, though still just as urgent. He straightened his waistcoat and tie, and pushed the parlour door open.

"Mr. Lutece!" Miss Marlowe all but exclaimed at his entrance into the foyer. "I apologize for the constant ringing, but there's a bit of an emergency." She gestured discreetly at the two gentlemen also standing in the room.

He noticed them fully at the opposite side of the front desk. "My deepest apologies, gentlemen. Have you been waiting long?"

By their appearance, it was difficult to discern. They were well-dressed, as he was, and also unshaven and unrefreshed. The older man had the weary expression of a father who'd had not a wink of sleep last night in his worry over his family. He gave him a smile as tight as his hands gripping his hat.

"No, we have not, Mr. Lutece. Please accept _our_ apologies for the premature hour. I'm Melchoir Sinclair, and this is my son Percy," he said, introducing the other man.

Robert nodded at both of them. "A pleasure to meet you both, though I regret the circumstances. You have an emergency?" he prodded.

"Yes," Mr. Sinclair replied. "Trouble with our reactor. It's a singular residence. I've told Miss Marlowe the problem. Perhaps, she could relay it better to you?"

He looked to her for assistance and she in turn looked to Robert.

"Go ahead," he said.

She smiled in gratitude and handed him a note card for which she narrated. "Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Percy, arrived at 6:45-" At this, he glanced briefly at the clock. _Fifteen minutes ago_. "-With the concern that their residence was listing several degrees. I've noted their location, square footage of their building, time of the incident. The severity of it in such a short amount of time is cause for concern."

"Hmm, yes," he agreed, scanning her neat handwriting. Her notes were very thorough and concise. He could actually work off an estimate of the reactor decay rate from it. It wasn't good. "Is this the only incident?"

"The most recent," Miss Marlowe said. She returned to the desk and he saw other telegrams arranged there. "These have come in throughout the night and early this morning. They were on the doorstep and I've sorted their urgency as best I could."

Robert examined her triage, which was just as thorough, and he was impressed. This was work he expected from an assistant who'd been working here for months.

"You've done excellently, Miss Marlowe. If you'll gather these and put on your coat, we'll head right away to help the Sinclairs."

Her eyes widened. "I'm going with you?"

"Yes. I could really use your help today. Is that a problem?"

"Oh no! I don't mind at all," she said, gathering the cards.

"Good," he said, leaning into the parlour to grab his own coat off the hanger. "You'd best grab a notebook."

* * *

The Sinclair Residence he could see, even from the distance he was at, was in a state of trouble. It hung forlornly in the air like a balloon that had diffused much of its helium. He, Miss Marlowe, Mr. Sinclair, and his son headed towards the five-storey house on a Science Authority barge. Much of the deck space was occupied by the large deicing machine, and as such, the four of them stood rather closer than would be acceptable as the unusually cold air blasted them on the open deck. As they neared, Robert reluctantly pulled his hands from his pockets and opened his notebook. His assessment would begin in the same way he did all the others; an encompassing inspection of the reactor, readings from the reactor itself, then a course of action to rectify the problem. Usually it was another round of deicing.

"There's already another barge there," Miss Marlowe pointed out.

He looked up from his notes. "An Authority barge?" Glancing at Mr. Sinclair, he asked,"Did you put in a request for a deicing?" Such requests were only approved if he'd done a previous inspection, and this was his first visit here.

The gentleman looked just as confused as he was. "Er, no. We headed straight to your laboratory, per the city-wide notice."

"Father," Percy murmured, "I think that may be Leander."

Mr. Sinclair shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, my son," he clarified. "He's a chemist for the Authority. He mentioned he was working on…_something_." He looked to his other son for help.

"-A deicing compound. He'd been working on it, but we didn't think he'd have anything so quickly."

"Do forgive my son's presumptuousness, Mr. Lutece."

Robert gave a polite smile. Though he had slight annoyance with the interference, he recognized on Mr. Sinclair's face the same expression he'd seen on his own parents—embarrassment that came from having a very brilliant and precocious child. If the young man was anything like he was, the opportunity to have his work and ideas noticed by an established scientist was sure to be appreciated. And, if Leander's compound helped in the slightest, he'd appreciate it as well.

"It's fine. I'm interested in the results of his work."

Both Sinclair men looked skeptical, but gave him their thanks. He told their pilot, Mr. Thompson, to bring them close to the other barge. There were three men on the ship, two in the attire of Authority workmen. Leander Sinclair, though he shared the same angular features as his father and brother, was fairer in hair, and he called to them as the barges aligned.

"Father!" he waved, open expression changing into one of excitement when he caught sight of Robert. "Mr. Lutece!" He all but scrambled across the decks to shake his hand, the coldness of which seeped through both their gloves. "I did not think you would join us so early."

Percy nearly scoffed at his brother. "Did you not think that he would arrive with his own methods of correcting the problem as well?"

"Boys," Mr. Sinclair warned.

Robert cleared his throat. As uncomfortable and _familiar_ as this scene was to him, he'd like to move on to a problem he could actually fix.

"Is this barge equipped with your new compound?" he asked Leander.

"Yes. Actually, it's the _same_ deicing solution you've been using, only I've added a solute to depress the freezing-point even lower."

Interesting. Indeed, if it worked, this very well _could_ be an end to their troubles. "Have you tested it?"

Leander glanced at his father and brother, before answering, "Not on something as large as a reactor, no."

"But you _have_ tested it?"

"On smaller items."

"That's fine, we can discuss it as I work." He turned to Mr. Sinclair and Percy. "My inspection may take some time, you're welcome to wait here or in a much warmer place."

Mr. Sinclair said, "Thank-you. We'll be waiting in the O'Hare residence." He pointed out the building.

With that, Robert ushered Miss Marlowe and Leander onto the other barge. They descended into a slow orbit around the house. He saw the young man shiver, and he was unsure if it was from the cold or excitement.

"Well," he started, rubbing his hands together. "I didn't expect to have such fine company today. "This is Miss Marlowe, my assistant," he introduced.

Leander eagerly shook her hand."Quite the pleasure to meet you Miss Marlowe, though I must ask, are you of the same relation to Mr. Charles Marlowe?"

She smiled, but Robert could see it a bit forced. "He's my uncle. But please, you may call me Gwendolyn."

"And you may call me Leander," he said, catching on with a wry smile. "_Mr. Sinclair_ is my father. And brother, sometimes. Though he's hoping to make that _Dr._"

"Is your father a man of science as well?" Robert asked. If both his sons were, surely he was?

"He's a Professor of Grammar and Literature."

"Ah." That did explain why he was uncomfortable explaining certain things earlier. He smiled. "Well, his concern for your work stems only from his misunderstanding. Perhaps we can change his mind today."

"I really appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Lutece," Leander said. There was an eagerness in his eyes he did not see present in the man's father and brother.

"And I appreciate the possibility of a more permanent solution. It is _rather cold_ during the winter. Are you ready, Miss Marlowe?"

She nodded.

"Very well. I'll dictate."

They circled the underbelly of the Sinclair residence. From observation alone, one could see that ancillary quadrant reactors I and IV were performing at a rate lower than the other two, consequently causing the building to list. This was atypical of most of the problems he'd been encountering all week. The Lutece Field, when activated, over-layed onto the Newtonian Gravitational Field, decelerating the field gradient and nullifying interaction between an object and the Earth. What was happening because of the weather, however, was that efficiency fell below normal because the reactors iced over, and the laws of gravity came into effect again.

This in turn caused buildings to sink. While this was cause for alarm, any building—or vehicle, for that matter- with a reactor floating within the Lutece Field would never fall to the ground. They were suspended indefinitely—so long as the reactors continued to work, and they would never _completely_ ice over. At their very core, they were contained suns. The problem that he suspected here was that I and IV somehow became more iced than II, III. Probably their energy line to the main reactor.

All this, he explained to his company who nodded their heads, or in the case of Miss Marlowe, _recorded_, whether they comprehended it all or not.

Afterwards, he had the barge hover alongside the main reactor so he could gather readings from the instruments. He really disliked this part of his inspection because it demanded he walk on a sliver of a catwalk. Other men might grin at the clouds beneath their feet, but his frozen fingers and dress shoes don't give him nearly enough purchase to enjoy the feeling. Nor does being buffeted by the icy slipstream between the large, stout hulks of steel. It reminded him of the hull of a ship on the cold Atlantic.

Finally, after several harrowing steps, he reached the instrument panel. Above the wind, he could hear glimpses of the conversation between Leander and Miss Marlowe.

"Have you worked with the Luteces long?"

"About three weeks, now. Though it feels like much longer."

Robert grinned, jotting down the numbers from the altimeter. A year had only passed since he came over and it felt like a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes ago, if he took into account Rosalind's memories.

He checked the output levels. Only slightly below normal.

"I imagine it must be fantastic," Leander continued. "I don't see them at all in my division, except at the department meetings. To work this close with Mr. Lutece, even if I'm just here for the ride, is a bit unreal."

"This is actually my first assignment in the field with them."

"Well, how about that! I'd have never guessed. You look very proficient."

"It's stimulating; only jotting down notes, but I feel like a girl on Christmas."

Light laughter bounced off the ice and metal.

_Well, at least he hadn't bored his companions._ With his readings, he started his careful trip back. Robert swore the gangway width was inconsistent between each reactor; probably shortcuts taken during their construction. On the ground, they may have looked fine, but up here, every centimeter and lack thereof was sorely noticed. The wind blew suddenly. He steadied himself with a hand against the side of the reactor, fingers brushing against the embossed inscription. FLVCTVAT-NEC-MERGITVR. A fitting reminder that the laws of gravity still applied to him if he fell.

Leander extended a hand to assist his transition from the catwalk to the stability of the barge, even though in his mind he knew he'd never feel safest until he was back into the warmth of his house.

Robert sniffed and rubbed his hands again to bring heat to his fingers. "Note a five meter decrease in altitude from Buoy-2, and a twenty-three percent decrease in energy balance between the main and quadrants I and IV," he told Miss Marlowe.

"How does it fare, Mr. Lutece?" Leander asked.

"It fares well," he answered in all honesty. "A deicing process should rectify the problem in a few short hours. Now, on the consent of your father, I'm willing to test your compound. It will go on one of the two ancillary reactors that were problematic. Results will be gathered tomorrow morning to see how effective it is. I'll leave it to you to gather and finalize all your work for a more formal presentation to both my lab and to the Authority."

If there was a happier person that frigid morning in Columbia than Leander Sinclair, Robert would have loved to meet them.

* * *

He and Miss Marlowe headed back to the Lab, even though they still had three other incidents to inspect. The new turn of events at the Sinclair Residence was grounds for informing Rosalind immediately—_and_ he should like to warm up and grab some breakfast before returning to work.

Apparently, all it took to convince the patriarch of the Sinclair family to use his son's experimental solution was Robert's own word. Dangerous as that was, to take a man's word simply because of his position, he was none the less _very_ pleased that he and Rosalind were in such a position to garner that kind of trust. It made for things to go on quite smoothly. There were only a few men citywide, perhaps only _two_, who would challenge them otherwise.

"Very glad that's over," he started, not really intending to talk about anything in particular, only to distract himself from the wind whipping them on the barge.

Miss Marlowe smiled and nodded silently. To her breast she clutched the work notebooks he had entrusted to her. Her posturing made him consider what was so unique about her. This was her third week with them, the longest anybody had and would be tolerated.

She _enjoyed_ working with them? She had mentioned it to Leander, one of her peers. The impression he had of the both of them, however, was that they were not ones who cared to blend into societal norms. Perhaps that was it?

"I really do appreciate your help today, Miss Marlowe. And so does Rosalind. I understand it is quite early."

"Thank-you. I am very grateful for the opportunity." She looked thoughtful for a moment, her mouth pulling into a frown. "I'm not being presumptuous?"

It was quite an odd question. One who _was _presumptuous did not usually ask if they were. He wondered if Mr. Sinclair and his sons had sparked the notion. Robert looked at her seriously. "Do you feel presumptuous?" He did not think she was.

She sighed. "I have been told that I am. I do not wish to be so at your or Madame Lutece's expense."

There was a sudden understanding he garnered, perhaps from gaining Rosalind's memories, that there was also a subtle implication to Miss Marlowe's concerns. She shared the same gender as Rosalind, and like his other self, there was also the connotation of a _name _and how it preceded them regardless of their control.

"You are not," he assured, though it did not seem to placate her. "And," he said delicately, "I hope you don't take _this_ as a presumption, but would you prefer it if we addressed you by your first name?"

His own question must have struck a chord with her, because her expression changed to something more agreeable. "That would be great, yes."

He smiled. "Good."

The Lab was not far from the Sinclair house, it being on the East end of Emporia, and he had Mr. Thompson drop them off in the plaza right in front of it. Activity was thankfully minimal on account of the weather. Robert let himself imagine Rosalind had put the kettle on earlier, and it was ready to be poured into a cup, steam bringing feeling back to his lips and nose. His stomach grumbled. Maybe an extra lump of sugar as well.

No sooner had they walked up the porch steps and back into the foyer, and a collection of telegrams was handed to him, and Rosalind sent them back out again.

He had a terrible feeling today was going to be a very long day. He wondered if Gwendolyn would feel the same about taking notes.

* * *

_**A/n:**_

Fleshing out this world and creating characters is quite a doozy. The kind of job the Luteces have in regards to Columbia and its daily function would have been busy, especially in the early years as they learned all the aches and pains of a new city.

Deep questions this chapter:

-Will Robert get his tea this morning? Poor guy. He works so hard.

-And Miss _Marlowe_. Hrmmm. Murder of Crows is released in 1895…

Some trivia while doing research:

-The rubber balloon was invented in 1824 by Michael Faraday, an English scientist known for his studies on electromagnetism.


	5. De minimus

**Chapter 5- ****De minimus**-

"_Of the little things."_

* * *

For a surprisingly neat man, Robert took horrible notes. Or rather, he organized them terribly in their journals. It was not really all that surprising they had developed the same personal shorthand, only a few abbreviations lost in translation between them, but his manner of organization left her frustrated. Time that could be spent working was wasted trying to decipher whether _'see chart manifold'_ meant the manifold of December's weather on page twenty, the power graph on thirty-five, or one he hadn't created yet and left a blank page following the phrase.

Rosalind sighed irritably.

This was _precisely_ the reason they worked together, so there was no more inconsistency. She would have to input the numbers from both and hope—scientists did not _hope_—that the results were what he was expecting. Either way, they'd discuss it when he returned.

Journal in hand, she walked to the gramophone and started the needle; _Mozart, Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K. 299; _something light and uninvesting. Although, if this session was going to be maddening, she might put on a stronger melody.

She flipped to the first chart and began inputting the variables on the chalkboard.

If _x_ is the tangent vector of _p_, with _p_ being the change in temperature then—no, that would negate the equilibrium state she was trying to achieve. She swiped the board clean. Take the differential of _f_ at _p__…_ and yes, that was it. The numbers solved themselves out. Until they didn't. Quickly, the last line of equations was swept away, and she redid them. She used a knuckle to wipe away the four and substitute a twenty-two point seven eight, adjusted the curve…

Squinting at the transitory solution, she stepped back a bit to assess her work. Everything _looked_ good, but any problems would soon make themselves apparent when she started the next set of formulas. She dragged another chalkboard from the main room, wincing at the pain that suddenly lanced up her arm; her hands still hurt when she gripped things too tightly. But she _could _finally grip them, after five days of essentially being an invalid; five days which had been frustrating for both her and Robert. She could tell, though he'd not conveyed it verbally. Today, though it was only noon, was surely to increase his tension. The expression on his face when she'd handed him the telegrams earlier was the worst she'd seen it the whole week. She'd make it up to him. The chalk hovered over the blackboard.

Yes, she would make it up—but she'd dwell on the thought more later—for now, the manifold equation.

With fervor, she resumed her work. After finding the derivative, she plotted out the differential and came up with a percentage of thirty three point three.

Rosalind stepped back from her work again. Excellent. The answer fell within the parameters Robert noted. In the main room, she adjusted the dials on the miniature reactor model, inputting the new figures. As a placeholder for a house, they had used a glass of water on it to quickly demonstrate any balance issues. When the machine reacted to its new functions, bucking and listing, the glass nearly fell to the floor. She checked and rechecked her work, from the dials to the board, and finally back to the notebook. She flipped through the pages hastily to see where she went wrong, pausing suddenly, as she noticed work in the margins that she hadn't before. _Artistic _work.

With both hands, she lifted the journal closer to examine it. Between the formulas and data, there were sketches; sketches of buildings, of elaborate sconces, of hummingbirds, of _her._ Her pouting over an alembic, fixing her hair, writing on the—

"You'll wear out our needles again."

She started at the sudden presence, closing the book shut with a snap.

Robert was at the gramophone, lifting the stylus off the record that was playing static; she wasn't sure exactly when it had stopped playing music.

"Oh good, you're back." Rosalind gave him a small smile.

"Have been for several minutes," he said slowly. "Is that it, then?" He sounded exhausted, the usual inflection in his voice gone, and replaced with a low directness. The change in him altered her mood, whatever good there was left of it, and she looked to the chalkboard instead of at his weary face.

"It is for now," she hoped, calling him to the equation. "Tell me, does this looked balanced to you?" She needed another pair of eyes—or the same ones.

"It _looks_ balanced. And this is for increasing the energy output compensation, right?"

She hummed an affirmative.

"I assume you've run it already. What was the result?"

"A wet carpet." He must be really tired if he didn't want to run it himself. Or he was simply being logical and saving time.

He frowned, scanned the chalkboard again, and looked at the reactor. "Well, s_omething_ is off." His lips pursed. "The ratio perhaps?"

"Ten per square pound?"

"Hrmm," he said, and fell silent for a long while.

Having already done the work, she observed him then, as she was prone to doing whenever a significant length of separation occurred between them, Five hours was pushing the limits of the greatest time they'd ever spent apart, but she was beginning to discover that she never wished to be separated from him for any length of time. Even on still nights, she had to quell the urge to cross the hallway and watch him sleep, have him always within a head's turn from her, as if a divergence between them would develop in the short division. The habit was irrational, she knew, but, it was also indescribable and intrinsic; she could not nor wished to explain it.

Robert shifted his weight to one leg and rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble that usually was not there. The friction of his fingers over the hair snapped through the air. He glanced between the two chalkboards, following her work, and she was pleased to see his bemused expression; his tongue pressed to his teeth when he was completely absorbed in the mathematics. She did the same thing; _had_ done it, until Mother had chided her with the reasoning that it made her look buffoonish. Perhaps she and Mother agreed on _something_, though, because Robert still retained the quirk, and she thought he looked rather adorable when he did so, like a precocious school-boy.

"Ah! Let's try this," he said, wiggling a finger across the surface of the board to erase and replace a number.

Rosalind handed him the stick of chalk.

"Your hands doing better this morning?" he spoke as he furiously scribbled new equations.

"Much better, yes. Fingers at least."

"Well, _that_ is good news for today, if I ever heard it. Mine are. About ready. To…" He finished out the string of variables before his sentence. "Fall off," he said finally, stepping back a bit from the board.

"There. How's that?"

"It certainly _looks_ balanced," she echoed, garnering a small grin from him. Again, the numbers fit within the parameters, and again, they were set into the reactor. Luckily, she was prepared to catch the glass when it fell, because he certainly wasn't. Much of the water was already gone at this point from her first run.

Robert sighed. "Well that's disappointing," he said lamely.

"Cheer up," she told him, opening the journal once more. "You'll be glad to know I suspect what the problem is now."

"Oh?" he asked, moving to stand next to her and peer over her shoulder.

She flipped again to his notes from yesterday and pointed to his instruction to the chart manifold. "This."

The corners of his mouth fell. "I don't see it."

"Because it's _not there_?" she asked, flipping to the next page that was blank.

He took the book from her to see for himself. "Well it should be."

She arched an eyebrow. "Why isn't it?"

"I must have forgotten it between diagnosing the _Lansdowne residence_ and consoling the widowed _Mrs. Lansdowne, _as her son was attending to his wife and young children. She seemed absolutely stricken with the opinion that I resembled her late Thomas."

If she remembered correctly, the Lansdownes accumulated their wealth from business in real estate. The young Mr. Lansdowne couldn't stress it enough that his father's money was well spent buying a piece of Heaven. A hackneyed statement, but at the very least, mildly flattering. She was more interested in the elderly woman than her sentimental heir, anyway. How was the senior woman handling the altitude?

"Did she help you with repairs?" she said in jest.

At this, Robert grimaced and glanced sidelong at her.

"She _helped_ me to tea and Turkish delight, which was a favorite snack of his. I know I've a bit of a sweet tooth, but not quite for that." He furrowed his brows, his expression growing longer, when he saw her amusement. "And you were being facetious," he realized, "Though I don't see what you find particularly humorous about that. If you recall, I spent nearly six hours there. It could have been three at the most, if there were two of me," he said dryly.

Rosalind took his hand suddenly without knowing what to do with it, perhaps only that she could feel them now in the absence of bandages and pain. Robert's features softened at her abruptness as he looked at their hands. She examined them as well, the warmth of his palm and still slightly chilled fingers. The bitter mood she'd had earlier returned, and for a moment, she observed him again, observed how her foolishness affected him so fully now. Her lips twisted into a frown. He would not suffer the cold alone again. If he wanted to, she would write and he would dictate. Or he could simply sit fireside and watch her work, like father had done when she was a girl.

"Come," she said, leading him to the sofa. He followed, shoes shuffling across the carpet as a testament to his weary schedule; he all but collapsed onto the boxed velvet. Wordlessly, she switched the chalk in his hand for the notebook in hers. "I'll make the chart."

His amicable smile was the last thing she saw before turning to the blackboards, and it left one on her face..

"We'll begin the table," he said.

Rolling the chalkstick between her fingers, she anticipated the flood of data she would receive. Like a single unit, their work flow became so fluid, it was nigh impossible to determine whether she started, or Robert finished. Or when he added computations in the middle and she substituted a variable here, for another there. In secret, she loved that moment when they were in perfect synchronization; that point when she was writing before he spoke, when he was speaking before she wrote.

"December 9, a decrease of twenty-three joules at negative seven degrees Celsius, fifteen at negative four. December 11, twenty joules at negative three…"

Rosalind attacked the board with a speed that threatened to snap the chalk in half. Line after line, her flurry of numbers and variables grew, and page after page, the tempo of his speech accelerated until he sprang from the couch, and he was at her side, filling in the rest of the equation she could not get to fast enough.

"The constant here is-"

"-Seven, which makes the rate decrease at-"

"Twice, no-"

"Three times-"

"_Four."_

"So increasing the output to compensate for the mass suspension-" She ducked under his arm to write it in; he slid over just enough to give her room to do so. Very often and very quickly they became a tangle of limbs in their race to reach the solution. Mother would contemptuously say it was very improper to be on her knees, very unbecoming of a gentleman to lean and have his hand on the small of her back. Rosalind dismissed the thought, using Robert's leg as purchase to get back on her feet. The muscles of his thigh tensed beneath her fingers and his writing paused. He was disoriented for a moment, then extended his hand to help her up.

"Thank-you. The suspension increases at point oh eight," she told him.

"Yes, the output should balance out," he added, resuming his stride. "Leaving only the differential-"

"-and the limit to solve," she finished, already craning her neck to work it out. Stooping under her arm now, he scribbled the formulas in the bottom corner of the board, and she used his shoulder to stabilize herself as she stood her toes to reach the top.

"The highest degree is what?" she panted.

"Cubed. It—"

There was a knock on the door, and they both stared at the rather uncertain girl standing in the doorway.

Rosalind sighed rather harshly, dropping back onto her heels, but Robert answered politely enough.

"Yes?"

Miss Marlowe chewed her bottom lip. "I hope I haven't interrupted you. It's 2:30 and I was unsure if you'd eaten. The both of you," she added, meeting her eyes.

She finally noticed the tray she was holding, and the contents of it; croissants, cheese, and some tea, all from their kitchen. Rosalind stiffened slightly at the fact that she had been roaming around their house unattended. The knowledge made her stomach tighten even as it grumbled at the sight of food.

"No, we have not." He relieved her of the tray. "Thank-you so very much." His back to Miss Marlowe, he raised his eyebrows at Rosalind.

"Er, yes," she said, trying with much effort to sound as polite as he. "How very thoughtful. You needn't have worried about us, though. Have you eaten yourself?"

She nodded. "I have, thank-you." There was a pregnant pause and she excused herself. "I should leave you to your work."

Robert bowed slightly. "We appreciate the gesture, Gwendolyn."

Rosalind arched an eyebrow when she had gone back into the foyer.

He simply scowled at her expression. "Oh, it is not so concerning," he said, beginning to divide the food evenly. "She's asked to be called by her first name, if we could help it."

She joined him, setting the tea. "She just made this request spontaneously?"

"Not entirely. The idea I got was that she was bothered by the immediate association to her uncle that preceded her."

"Hmm." The association of a name preceding her was something she knew and despised greatly. She could relate to the woman in that respect, but not to why she chose to open up to Robert solely. Or maybe she did?

"She fancies you."

He gave an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, Rosalind, you've thought every front girl we've hired fancies me."

"I do not!" she huffed. "What about that Williams girl? Barely even two days at the front desk and she was planning all sorts of picnics and outings for you."

Setting down the knife, he eyed her skeptically. "And if they do, why does it bother you so much?"

"B-Bother? Bother _me_?" She felt flustered suddenly, heat in her cheeks and ears. "Because it's distracting," she exclaimed. She folded her arms across her chest. "I thought we were discussing Gwendolyn."

"We were. Now," he said, picking up the utensil once more, "Please be kind to her. She is a nice young lady who does her duties very well and puts in extra. For the niece of a Founder, or any sort of person who thinks themselves proper, that is quite a feat," he murmured.

Again, she agreed. A sour note that was falling between them and the assistants they hired was the notion of doing menial work. What did they think working for them entailed? Prestige? A good reference? They would get neither if that was the mindset they chose to disillusion themselves with.

"On that note, you may believe that two people can run a business, a laboratory, and a household, but at least I'm the more realistic of the both of us. And realistically, it's getting rather difficult and frustrating having to find a new receptionist every week simply because of your mood."

The teaspoon she was stirring with stopped. "_My_ mood?"

"I shall not bring up your issue with the dismissal of your maids."

She scoffed. She hardly needed them to begin with. And after Robert came through, she did not need them wondering how a man had suddenly entered a locked house in the middle of the night.

"And back to Gwendolyn, I am bringing to your attention how very capable and invaluable she has been to us in the last week. If that doesn't change your tolerance of her, I'm not sure what will."

"And what of this?" she gestured to the tray. Would he so easily dismiss this blatant disregard for their privacy? Not that they hadn't allowed her into the main part of the house, but she was always in the corner of her eye when she was.

Robert glared at her. "She's _trying_ to be helpful. Perhaps not always in the _best _way, but that's what we hired her for, yes?" He sighed again, offering her a plate of two croissants with cheese spread on the inside. "Can this matter with assistants be done with? I hate to bicker with you. I'd much rather we focused our energy on something we'd enjoy." This time the corners of his mouth tugged up slowly. "Like the infusions. We can't let Fink get the better of us simply because some bad weather settled in."

Blast him. There was something simply charming about his smile that always seemed to placate her mood. This cannot become a habit, especially if he figured out he has that kind of effect on her.

She nodded, but before she could answer him properly, there was yet another knock on the door. Despite it being open, Gwendolyn stood in the doorway, unwilling to cross it. "Madame Lutece, Mr. Cunningham is here for portraits?"

Portraits! She'd completely forgotten they were today, and judging by the baffled expression on Robert's face, she'd forgotten to tell him as well.

* * *

_**A/n:**_

-Portraits? Whatever could they be for? Can this day get any busier?

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)

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	6. Non incautus futuri

**Chapter 6- Non incautus futuri**

"_Not unmindful of the future."_

* * *

"Portraits?"

Rosalind nodded at the floor, tapping her fingers over her lips in contemplation. "Yes, I'd completely forgotten he was coming _today_."

"Could you also have forgotten to tell me he _would_ be coming?" She'd have to had known for a week or two. Today was not exactly their best day appearance-wise, let alone their schedule. His face was chapped and weathered, hers smeared with bits of chalk. Her attire, much kudos for dressing herself, was still loose, and though he did not like to admit it,_ sloppy_.

"Hrmm?" She glanced up at him, surprised for the slightest of moments at his proximity, having forgotten about the issue with the reactor balance they had just been working on. Her eyes stayed on the stubble of his chin and flicked up finally to his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Robert exhaled wearily, rubbing them. "No point in worry about it, I suppose. Why are we having a sitting anyway?" There was no particular reason he could see for photographs.

"It's for the papers. And the museum. And," she inhaled, looking sheepish. "I should like to have something of us together."

"Oh." He looked at her suddenly, then to the wall that carried several photographs—none of which had him. Why would they? But her interest—or was it disinterest?—in photographs was only something he knew from her memories. All of them, besides the one of herself as a girl, hung because she cared to think _of_ them, but did not particularly care _for _them. Mother and Father, and Uncle, er, _Aunt _Freddie, and the old lodge house, Roseleigh. They held both pleasant and unpleasant memories for him as well; riding lessons on Buttercup, insect collecting in the marsh, hunting with Father, his first corset fit..fitting, an unwanted embroidery set…

A dull ache pulsed behind his left eye, and he blinked rapidly before he knew his vision would narrow and flare. Immediately he looked away, but he could already sense his hearing muffling.

"-notlikethisthough," she said distantly.

"Like what?" he strained, pinching the bridge of his nose. He snapped his eyes shut.

"Not looking like _this,_" she repeated, reaching to wipe chalk from his jaw. "A ragamuffin. What's wrong?"

"A bit of a spell," he gritted.

"What triggered it?"

"Photographs on the wall."

"I can take them down," she said quickly.

Robert dared to open his eyes. "No, no. I like them up there. They help. I just wasn't careful."

She seemed unsure.

"Mr. Cunningham is waiting for us," he reminded.

Her mouth parted open as if hearing the information for the first time, and she pushed her hair back into place.

"Right. I'll apologize to him. You eat."

As much as he wanted to be with her and explain their situation to Mr. Cunningham, he knew it best if he recuperated lest he have an episode in the foyer. He nodded, and she lingered a second more to make certain her demand was being followed. For good measure he took a bite of a croissant. That seemed to placate her because she turned on her heel to head to the front of the house.

Eating wasn't entirely a ruse, however, because the warm bread and salty cheese reminded him that he hadn't had a bite to eat all day, nor a proper dinner last night, and he scarfed the small morsel down faster than what would be acceptable for a gentleman of his standing, but acceptable be damned! He was tired as a stag-hound after the hunt. He feared if he stayed long enough, he'd fall into a deep slumber.

His handling of the tea was more civilized. No sense in spilling a fine brew. It wasn't perfect—Rosalind hadn't made it, but he was glad for it, however steeped it was. The steaming vapors were the most wonderful thing he experienced that day, tingling his nostrils, and the stringent fumes helped to clear his mind.

He sipped it slowly, enjoying the warmth that filled his body, pondering how well Rosalind was conversing with their guest. If she was distracted, well then, she could be a bit _untoward _someone unfamiliar with her mood. Whenever he had an episode, she dropped everything she was doing so suddenly, so intently. It would frighten him if he did not find it so selfishly captivating. Normally, he frowned upon coddling and fussing, but with Rosalind, it was less maternal instinct and more…penitent lover.

He frowned even at that description because he felt it didn't fully grasp what he experienced when she turned her attention fully to him. She didn't hover over him, or lay at his feet, she was always at his side. Always, with a profound sadness in her eyes, like she had wronged him in some way. Sometimes he did not shut his eyes in pain, but because he could not bear to look at her. He wished she would remember he was getting better at controlling the spells. He could go several weeks now without an incident.

Or was it something else? If it was guilt, it was one they shared. _He_ had been the one to walk over. She did not make him do it.

"I'll let him know," he heard Rosalind's voice approaching from the hall, and she peeked into the drawing room. "Mr. Cunningham's been most gracious. We're his last appointment of the day, so he's more than willing to wait while we get refreshed." She lowered her voice slightly. "I think he's worried he'll lose his exclusivity to us."

"Splendid. How much time did you ask for?"

She winced. "Not enough for a shave, I'm afraid."

"Ah." He was hoping for that much. Still, better to have some time than none at all.

Rosalind had Gwendolyn accompany Mr. Cunningham to set up in the drawing room, and Robert followed her up the stairs. At the top of the third floor, he asked her if she needed assistance straightening her attire. Rather abashedly, she turned to him saying, "Is it that bad?"

"You look fine, considering. I only ask because of the pictures." Insulting her was not his intent. If these were for historical and archival—and personal—records, he was fairly certain the both of them felt the same in wanting to look their best.

"Since you're offering," she said with a weak smile, leading the way into her bedroom.

Entering this part of the house, her bedroom, was as much reflective as it was apprehensive for him. His first real memories of this universe occurred here as he reconstructed his identity, sifting through a life he had not lived. Recollections of violent headaches and a warm pleasant hand throughout the entire ordeal welled within him upon sight of the ornately papered wall. It was also a very poignant model of how their separation made itself most apparent. Hairbrushes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a dressing screen, a mahogany vanity; here, she was completely Rosalind Lutece, woman, and these were _her_ things that she did not share with him. Was it prudence or preference that she chose to bring him here to nurse him, to remind him of who he was?

She caught her reflection in the full length mirror, frowning at something only she found fault with, and she hastily began removing her tie.

"You can use the bathroom to freshen up," she said, peering at him through the mirror.

Of course. She was probably going to change her whole attire. He didn't see much point in it- she looked perfectly fine. No amount of words from him would change her mind once she set it; as did he.

Robert made his way to her sink, examining his own self in the mirror. Surprisingly, he himself didn't look all that terrible. In his assessment, he discovered that his eyes were not too weary, only too watery. The bags underneath them were not too far off the mark of a typical late night working on experiments. But his nose still ran slightly from the frigid temperatures that left his cheeks and lips reddened and chapped. A trip to the pharmacy again for some balm would be needed to treat that. He pushed warm water onto his face. Although it was meant to refresh, it reminded him that he would rather go back to bed. He grabbed one of her hand towels. It felt odd to dry his face while the stubble remained, like he was ill. He straightened his tie and smoothed his lapels.

"Are you ready?" he asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Just about."

He could see that she was, needing only help with the finer details. She had chosen a cream cotton blouse over a dark pleated skirt with matching crimson necktie and cummerbund. He liked the very rich contrast it had with her skin and hair. She presented her back to him first so he could buckle the cummerbund, then her bowtie.

"I thought I might wear gloves," she said softly, waving around a pair.

He glanced at them for a moment. He'd nearly forgotten about her bandages appearing in the photo. They weren't too conspicuous now that they were only on her palms. Depending on how they posed, they might be more or less visible.

"Do you _want_ to wear them?" He pulled the loops on her tie taut and glanced up from her neck.

She sighed. "Not really. But I don't want to cringe every time I see this picture."

"You can bring them down and we can ask Mr. Cunningham if he can work something out." He gave her a reassuring smile, one that put a matching expression on her lips.

"I like that," Rosalind said, performing a final once-over in the mirror. "Not very many people can say their reflection gives them the best advice." She grinned though the looking glass at him.

"Well, if _I'm_ to be the one giving advice, then you've still got a bit of chalk on your cheek."

"Hrmm," she said, rubbing at it rapidly. "Better?"

"Very."

"I hope we haven't spent too much time."

"Shall we?" he offered her his arm.

They went down the stairs together, starting each flight with the same foot, sounding as one person descending. When they reached the bottom, he gave her arm a light pat before they separated.

"Again, we appreciate your kind gesture, Mr. Cunningham," Rosalind said.

Mr. Cunningham, with his round eyes and aquiline nose, was not a man that Robert knew very well, but had had many sessions with Rosalind since before he had come over. His studio was quite popular in the city, especially in Emporia. Perhaps that was why. Despite the popularity, the man managed to stay humble enough in his transition from middle to upper class.

"Please Madame Lutece, the appreciation is mine. Now," he said, gesturing to his equipment, "I was thinking we might first do a formal set of the two of you. Then a few singular portraits-"

"-Singular?" Rosalind interjected. "Could we perhaps remain together?"

"Is that what you prefer?" Mr. Cunningham glanced at Robert for his approval.

"Yes," he explained. "We've, er, always been together since we were children. Since neither of us has a significant other-"

"-You'd like to remain together," he reiterated. "I understand. Estelle's got two cousins who are twins. They make for excellent photography subjects, even if I can't tell them apart most of the time. So, we'll do a formal set, some with you around your machines—I'll leave the details of that to you—and end with some candids. Shall we begin?"

"Let's," Rosalind said.

Mr. Cunningham followed them into the drawing room pointing out several locations he'd scouted out. "You can sit by the fireplace here, there's nice light coming from both the fire and the window, by the window there, or by the chalkboard and bookshelf. Where would you like to be?"

Robert glanced at Rosalind, shrugging. He was fine with all of the suggestions.

"Which ever you think works best, Mr. Cunningham. We defer to your expertise." Her words seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear because he smiled widely. "The fireplace, then."

He and Rosalind moved to position themselves on the couch, and she smoothed her skirt down before she sat. It reminded him of her concern, and he brought up the issue of her hands.

"Bit of an accident in the laboratory," she explained.

"Not a problem ma'am. Comes with the occupation," Mr. Cunningham smiled, wiggling his fingers, and they both could see that his hands were permanently stained with silver nitrate. "Actually, that solves two problems. Can I have you sit down, Mr. Lutece? Your height gives me a difficult long shot."

"Sit?" Robert asked suddenly. He was very much against that idea, lest he fall asleep, but regardless, he sat down. He chose a spot that was the most uncomfortable—difficult on a velvet couch.

"Good. Now, if you'll angle towards me. Madame, could you stand next to him, facing me, but angled towards him? Excellent. And if you rest one hand on his shoulder and the other behind—Perfect."

They remained in that position for a few seconds as Mr. Cunningham activated the shutter. "Very nice," he murmured over his camera, "I think you'll be pleased with this shot."

The rest of the photographs were very nearly the same as the first. Two more poses by the fireplace were taken, during which he yawned uncontrollably, much to his embarrassment, and Mr. Cunningham was more than happy to switch up the order of photos they took. They stood at the chalkboard they were working at earlier, now with the instruction to carry on as they normally would while their picture was being taken. Robert was concerned he'd have to sacrifice his focus for both, but as soon as he became immersed in the mathematics again, he completely forgot the camera was even there.

When they were done—or when Mr. Cunningham was done, because they still hadn't solved the problem yet, he asked, "Are you comfortable with some pictures in the main part of the house?"

He knew he was referring to the Contraption, amongst other things. When he first arrived, he never paid much mind to it in regards to other people. It was special to him foremost as his doorway to her, and that it was, so far, the pinnacle of their work. But Rosalind was always so concerned about the Contraption, and over time he learned why. If anybody got the slightest inkling of what it truly was, it would cause a downfall like the world had never seen, one that he was sure would be pinned on them. His feelings for the machine were as strong as hers now.

It was she who answered though. "If you could refrain from any full shots of the machine? Partials will be fine."

"I suspected as much. I'll do my best to omit it as much as possible."

The three of them moved to the main room, Mr. Cunningham pouting at the lack of natural lighting of it. "Might I borrow the young lady from the front desk?" he asked. "Estelle's down with a cold. Must be all this weather. She usually accompanies me when I have sessions with more esteemed clients."

"Of course," Rosalind said. "I'll get her."

As they waited for the women, Mr. Cunningham turned to Robert. "The symmetry you and your sister possess together is perfect. Even Estelle's cousins aren't that coordinated, and they're identical!"

Robert smiled, moreso to himself. "It is a bit like looking at my reflection."

"Ah, it's more than that. Don't mean to presume, but you play the piano?"

"As a hobby. Rosalind is better than I am."

"Have you ever played a call and response piece? It's looks, to me, a lot like that."

Call and response? The phrases were not about reflecting each other so much as responding and communicating with the same thought. It required a depth of understanding that both participants had to have in order for the message to be fully realized. Maybe he'd play a piece with her later. As far as experiments went, they'd never tried _that_ before.

The man must have taken his silence for disagreement, because he added, "Now, I don't have much talent in music beyond an appreciation of it, so my metaphor's probably off the mark-"

"-No, no. It's quite possibly the best I've heard."

Rosalind returned with Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham smiled. "Hello again, ma'am. Would you care to be my assistant today? Oh, it's nothing too difficult, you'll be holding up a reflective panel to bring light to this part of the house. Quite boring actually."

"No, of course," Gwendolyn said.

"Alright," he clapped his hands, directing them to a spot closer to the generators and chalkboards and father away from the Contraption. "Let's have the both of you there, and my lovely assistant over there. If you'll be so kind as to hold this up," he added, handing her the panel. It was rather large, like a mirror, as wide as she was tall, but not looking particularly heavy. She showed no difficulty in carrying it. "Good okay. Now if you'll just keep it angled in this general direction, and Mr. and Madame Lutece, if you'll take a standard pose first…"

For the next twenty minutes, the four of them slinked around the bulky Contraption to the instructions of Mr. Cunningham. In that time, Robert had come to appreciate the man of his own accord and not merely Rosalind's words. He liked that he put up with their insistent requests, but was still just as particular as they were with his own—and really, they had given him free reign with his direction for pictures. He had to admit that he was actually looking forward to how these turned out.

"I should have them developed in two week's time," he said, putting away his equipment. "Normally I'd have them a few days earlier, but the weeks before Christmas seem to fill up faster'n I can blink."

Robert helped him lift his canvas portfolio. "The holidays always seem to bring in more work than as they near. We can surely attest to that."

"Guess that makes you enjoy them more I suppose."

"Indeed."

They walked him to the foyer. "Well, it was quite the pleasure working with all of you." He shook hands with the three of them. "Shall I make an appointment to return on, say, the 28th?"

"Yes," Rosalind answered. "Gwendolyn, could you set that date?"

"What would be a good time?" Robert added. Today was quite an example of how much could be forgotten.

Mr. Cunningham shrugged, scratching at his temple. "Is the same time alright? I can arrange it so you're the last client that day in the event something comes up?"

In the silence that occurred when they all glanced at one another for consideration, the front door swung open and the figure that walked in was unrecognizable in comparison to the heroic colossi not two blocks from here, but his bearded visage was.

"Oh!" Gwendolyn exclaimed, having laid eyes on him first. "Father Comstock. Good afternoon, sir."

Comstock straightened his hair after removing his hat. "Don't worry about me, child," he said with an easy smile. "Finish your business with Mr. Cunningham first. If the Israelites can wait forty years in the desert, I can wait but a few minutes."

Robert shared a look with Rosalind who in turn nodded at Comstock. This facade was only in place because of the other people in the room. The _Prophet's_ visits, when it was just the three of them, were less humble, and more demanding. This business they had with him was always something that left a bad taste in his mouth and a dull throb behind his left eye.

"Would you like to wait in the drawing room, Sir?" she asked.

To his ears only, Robert knew the honorific was difficult for her to say, and one she said it only when there were others around.

"Why thank-you, Madame," Comstock said and inclined his head. "You two have a fine afternoon," he told Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham, before following Rosalind deeper into the house.

"The same time would be great, Mr. Cunningham," Robert finalized, giving him an apologetic smile. "Thank-you once again for everything. Rosalind gives you her thanks as well."

"It was very nice to have finally met you in person, Mr. Lutece. And thank-you again Miss Marlowe for your help," he tipped his bowler hat to them both before leaving.

As soon as the door shut, Robert turned to Gwendolyn suddenly. "Mr. Comstock is a very _private_ person," he said delicately, "He doesn't like to be disturbed. We mentioned this when we first hired you, but whenever he is here, I'd like to remind you to remain in the foyer until he leaves. If there is an urgent matter, which I shall leave to your discretion, use the bell pull."

She nodded seriously. "I remember, Mr. Lutece."

"I suspected you hadn't, but I wanted to make sure the matter was clear. Thank-you."

He bowed his own exit and closed the foyer door, making certain that it was fully shut. Rosalind and Comstock, he could already see, were at the Contraption. He made his way to them, closing the main room door behind him as well and catching the end of their conversation.

"-really isn't a good time. We've been correcting issues with the reactors all week."

Comstock gave her a withering glance. "There's two of you now, isn't there?"

"Yes, there _is,_" Robert answered evenly. He could feel both their eyes on him, but he looked at neither, making his way to the control panel. One glance at Rosalind's fuming expression, or that man's condescension, and he was unsure of what he might do, only that it would not be pleasant. He was tired, he was still hungry, the winter chill he'd spent six hours in had not left his bones, and he did not have the _energy_ left to tolerate a man who fancied himself something grand when they all knew what he truly was.

He would start the machine when the facade truly ended. "The house would be clear if you scheduled your viewings more consistently. We've had visitors all day," Robert said as he made adjustments. If there was one thing he picked up during their sessions with Comstock, it was that the man harbored an irrational fear of the limits of his control. Whenever he was made aware of it, he became much easier to manage—if they did so carefully.

There was a harsh sigh. "I'll set something," Comstock muttered irritably under his breath,

With his back to him, Robert smirked. "Let's begin."

* * *

_A/N:_

_**Some questions:**_

_What do you suppose they'll view in their session with Comstock?_

_And what do you think of the relationship Robert has with the man? He's certainly a second-hand participant and inclusion to the complicated relationship Rosalind has with Comstock._

_As always, let me know your thoughts! I appreciate reading your reviews :)_


	7. Modus Operandi

**Chapter 7: Modus operandi**

"_Method of operation"_

* * *

Once, when she was a girl, around nine or so, she witnessed her father argue with the Duke of Barrington on the Empire's necessity on the coast of Alexandria. The subject of the revolts is nothing she thought even mildly enlightening, but that her father in good standing, lacking significant peerage, challenged a man of much higher respect on a trivial matter, while he chose to ignore the blatant shortcomings of Baron Carlton. Later, in the privacy of their home, he consoled her on the possible repercussions the family might suffer from his actions. Despite her mother's displeasure at her blatantness, she dared to wonder aloud to him, why the influential Duke and not the slandering Baron? Her father answered, '_To be angry with a weak man, is proof that you are not very strong yourself.'_

She learned an important lesson that day and the years that followed about the measure of a man, and later still, about a son's silent anger with his father. The shade that hung over Robert was greater in his universe than hers. While her damnable sex was always her contention, the distinction of father as cavalier cost the son dearly. He received no grants from generous benefactors, no surplus of social invites, no easy friendship in the schoolyard, or so he hinted. So with his back turned to the Prophet of Columbia after having put him in his place, Rosalind considered deeply why he chose to unveil his emotions to a man who could turn the city on them in an instant. And she had never seen him act this way before, never seen him act with such audacity. She would have been frightened if Comstock had not been preoccupied with his own self.

The man already knew to occupy the chair from the desk in the corner, and he crossed his legs impatiently while they began the necessary startup. From the side closet, she retrieved the blackboard specifically used for the occasion. Every caution was made to ensure it remained out of sight—on it was every major event Comstock chose to use for his preachings; dangerous to all of them, like Robert's tense shoulders and clenched jaw. That he had not looked at her since he entered the room was troubling.

"Would you power up the second floor generators?" she asked him, equally as delicate and commanding. She would do it herself if she was not concerned of what the outcome leaving both men in the same room would be. Robert peered at her over his shoulder, nodding silently, and he exited through the drawing room. Rosalind followed him to activate the generator there, but he told her coolly, "I'll get this one as well," leaving her with just the one closest to the Contraption.

The generators scattered throughout the house were always so cumbersome, but it was necessary to keep them in different wings because they discharged enormous amounts of heat, and less significantly, created minuscule Lutece fields. Separately, they were not problematic, but putting them all together in their residence would give way to trouble. They were her machines, and while they worked efficiently, they didn't work _perfectly. _Built in haste, she had to ensure they worked, not that they were pleasing to the eye—such was the downfall of many "scientists," like those not too long ago at the Exposition; their machines were sleek, but aesthetics did not convince observers, especially when accompanied by smoke. Perhaps sometime in the future she and Robert would perfect the generators, but for now, they worked absolutely fine. She could manage the bulk of extra wires and a machine in the corner of the room in place of an armchair. First and foremost, this was a laboratory.

Robert's steps were light and quick throughout the house before being drowned out by the generators coming to life. She flipped the lever to activate hers, pleased with the needles of all the meters holding at the right numbers. Powering up the Contraption took careful coordination. She and Robert practiced a strict general rule to never step within the tear aperture unless necessary, and never when it was on. They were well aware of what would happen should they get caught between universes; the girl's finger, an apple, and a bird were demonstrative enough. So it was to Comstock as well, which was good on their part. No hassle dealing with his impetuousness.

She cast a glance at him in the corner. He seemed to be entertained by the visible arcs of electricity that crackled at the tops of the coils. Bored, with that though, he rolled his neck and a random journal on the desk caught his attention, and he started rifling through the pages of it. Rosalind frowned, annoyance tugging at her mouth. Luckily, it was an old notebook of hers about electrical currents and magnetic fields, and not one Robert had written in. This new awareness of his sketching habits, and their _personal_ subject matter, was cause for her to consider careful placement of those as well. Was her house no longer private? She rolled her eyes, in the process catching glimpse of Robert upstairs through the hole in the roof. He stared at her intently with a look that concerned her. She gave him a half smile that seemed to break his concentration, and he rubbing his neck sheepishly before heading down the stairs.

Comstock seemed to sense that they were ready to begin the session, with the Contraption humming and crackling, but she never started until she could see where Robert was with her own eyes. A moment later, he walked back through the drawing room, and he nodded at her. Now that everything was in place, Robert standing next to her, Rosalind pulled the switch that opened the power sluice, feeding all power into the main collider.

The Contraption jolted alive with a searing magnificence that resonated throughout every fiber of her being, increasing with every whirring pulse until she scarcely dared to breathe, paralyzed by the stillness that bloomed. The suspension flooded all her senses that she felt she might deconstruct into an infinite of particles. It was like the breath of the universe sweeping over her skin, raising every strand of hair, an ancient comic scent, like a fiery heart of a star, scorching her lungs, but she could only fix her gaze upon the aperture of the machine, waiting to witness the veil of the universe lifting to reveal another. When she experienced these things, she thought of Robert, always; if he breathed the vapors of a dying sun, tasted the dust of creation, hovered on the edge of diffusion. She thought always, afterword, that she might ask him if he felt the same whenever a tear opened, and she thought always, if they could ever experience the stillness together.

An eternity passed, or perhaps a second. She blinked and breathed, and the tear materialized. A new world, unsuspecting of their prying eyes, carried on without knowledge of the glorious door that had just opened. She glanced sidelong at Robert, who peered into the world-window with the open-mouthed amazement of a child. Comstock leaned forward in his chair eagerly, waiting for the edges to expand and clear. One of them was to be disappointed, and she knew it would not be Robert. Once the Prophet saw there was no great prophecy, he irritably called for the next one, like it was some episcope slide of diagrams she could change because the demonstration was over. But, that was how he chose to use the machine, with a dulled mind, and she impassionately complied. So it was of every session with him. Tedious, but good for gathering data for later ones when he had gone.

This world they opened to was not Columbia— there were ice cream parlors and women in knee-high dresses and young men in leather jackets. A bridge over water in the distance clued them in to a possible location. A young lady with a large bow in her hair dared to cross the street with her suitor, laughing at the blaring horns of motorized carriages they stepped in front of. She glanced up curiously at them, whispering into her partner's ear and pointed.

Rosalind pulled the switch to close the tear immediately. A window worked both ways, she learned, and she could not choose where she opened them, per se, unless someone or something in that universe created a connection—such was the case with Robert. Often times, the tears they opened were useless; back alleys, office buildings, mundane things. Some were interesting enough, to her and Robert at least, to warrant further study. On one occasion, they had even opened up a tear to themselves, another pair of Rosalind and Robert with their Contraption. Truly, it was thrilling. The four of them conversed for a small time-what point in time they were at, recent breakthroughs, theories, but their meeting had to be cut short because they had Comstock with them. They parted with the hypothesis that they would meet again if they were destined to do so; her and the other Rosalind at least. Robert and his counterpart were skeptical.

Over the course of the next hour, they opened eight tears, most of which were indeterminable, and they spent far longer than necessary trying to see if there was anything they could use. These were Columbia now, but it could have been Columbia yesterday, or three months ago, or even three _years_ ago—a Columbia that took flight earlier than theirs. She was of the opinion that they should continue to look elsewhere at other tears, but Comstock insisted they look. Robert gave her an expression that looked like he _insisted_ Comstock go through and check for himself if he wanted to know so much. She grimaced at the fact the single stick of chalk in his hand was quickly becoming several broken pieces.

Wary of another altercation, she instead collapsed the one now for another. Better to press her luck with that than with the men. There was a pattern emerging, though she did not quite have all the data she needed to be certain, that the longer they spent opening tears, the more they were _influencing_ the subject matter and able to open it to an event they were looking for. She'd have to discuss it later with Robert.

"There, that one," Comstock murmured, finally. He got up from his chair and walked closer to examine the tear, scratching at his beard.

It was evening, and snow fell beyond the large windows in the room. An elaborate clock sitting on the edge of a desk declared it to be 11:18.

"Yes, this is my desk," he said. He stepped to it with an air of possessiveness, and Rosalind half expected him to step through and sit at it. She glanced casually at the meters of the machine to make sure the tear was stable. She'd warned him enough times that she didn't really care to do so now. It wouldn't stop him from his greedy curiosity. She caught Robert's eye again, and he shrugged indifferently at the Prophet's actions. They watched him reach into the tear gingerly and gather a document on the desk. He brought the paper back into their world, reading it quickly. The light from the electricity coursing through the Contraption was unforgiving to his aged face, illuminating every crease. It unnerved her how they were so close in years, but his visage was becoming very much like the Forefathers and Prophets he venerated.

"Write this down," he told them. "40 at 49 Revere Way."

The information didn't seem nearly as important enough to log down on the blackboard and a head tilt from Robert as he rolled the chalk in his fingers told her didn't think so as well. Still, Rosalind went to a desk and wrote on the corner of an old pharmacy statement, if only to placate the man. There was the sound of a door opening and she heard Comstock snarl angrily, "_What_ the _hell_ are—"

She whipped around at the voice, only to see _two_ Prophets, one on each side of the tear.

"-Y_ou_," the Comstock in the tear finished, now with recognition.

"What's the date?" the Prophet on this side asked. He handed his other self back the document.

Sniffing as if he had been out in the snow himself, he answered, "December 28th, Brother. The Lord will grant you an opening. Be swift." He brushed aside the document between them."Take it," he said. "I'm done." And he was, for he turned around, retrieved an item from the drawer of his desk and left the room again. The Comstock here returned to studying his new treasure, silent for several seconds.

"Do you want to investigate further?" Rosalind drawled. If they were done here, she had other work she'd like to return to.

"Hrmm?" he looked up suddenly from the paper as if remembering they were still here. "No, no. That will be all, my dear," he said cheerily, heading for the drawing room.

She arched at eyebrow at Robert. _My Dear?_ He must have gotten something very prized to leave him in such a good mood.

"Very well," Robert said. "Will you inform us of the next time you arrive?"

She winced. So he was willing to press his luck as well.

"We'll work something out," he murmured and left.

Robert closed the tear, beginning to power down the machine. She peered though the drawing room room to make sure that Comstock had really left, then stepped closer to Robert.

"You shouldn't have spoken to him like that," she chided.

He looked up from the control panel, his lips thin. "But _he's_ allowed to speak to you as he pleases?"

"_No_," she iterated, "But I can handle a few lashes, if it means everything else." The moment she heard herself say it aloud, she regretted it, because it gave her the image of a loyal hound bringing in the hunt for its master.

"I know I wasn't here for much of this…_arrangement,"_ he said bitterly, "But I dislike having this pussyfoot nonsense. _You_ gave him everything_;_ his Lamb, his City, his Sight-"

"-_We_ gave it to him," she corrected, which made him start as if she had said something absurd. "We did," she said again. "Which means, yes, he needs us."

His features softened, and she saw how weary he was again.

"And we need him?" he posed.

As much as she would not like to admit it, yes, they needed him too. They needed his interest, since he gave nothing else. His funding stopped when his interest did, and as they witnessed, he was very interested in keeping his power. Would that change any time in the near future?

Rosalind licked her lips. "For now." Robert said nothing, merely considering her words, and his silence unnerved her. "Let's shut off the generators," she waved. He made for the drawing room, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"We'll switch," she told him with a small smile.

After a grateful sigh, he uttered, "Thank-you," and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

While he handled the one in this room, she set to deactivate the rest. There was no designated order to shut them off, but she preferred to do it in the order they laid around the house. After the one in the main room that Robert took care of, it was the drawing room next, then the one at the top of the stairs, the two in the guest bedroom, and the last one at the end on the second floor corridor. A more personal preference of hers was observing what got caught in the small Lutece fields around them. usually it was dust, a perfect sphere made visible by the grainy particles. Often she found stray bolts and paper fasteners in the suspension, and as the fields collapsed, they were first pulled toward the magnetized machines before falling to the ground.

The house became silent again without the heavy thrum of the machines and her footsteps down the stairs echoed loudly.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier," Robert called out, hearing her steps. From the staircase, she could see him as he sat on the couch with his arms resting on his knees. He groaned and leaned back against the cushions. "Today's events have been exhausting." She said nothing until she reached the bottom step.

"This week _has_ been quite busy, hasn't it?" she said, entering the drawing room.

Slouching on the couch, legs spread undignified, Robert slid his eyes slowly to her as she made her way to the tray from earlier.

"_Unbelievably_."

Her stomach growled while she tried to salvage the now cold cup of tea. He chuckled lightly.

"Do you want some?" she asked.

He waved his decline.

"If we can't find a viable stabilizing solution for the reactors," she started between bites of hardened croissant, "we may have to assemble a seasonal team to handle this."

He hummed his agreement.

"Oh," he exclaimed, sitting up slightly, "I've nearly forgotten to mention about this morning! I met a rather interesting young man. A chemist from the Authority-" He paused to yawn and settled back down again. "Excuse me. Leander Sinclair. Developed a compound for our deicing solution that further lowers the freezing point. I supervised the usage of it on one of the reactors at his residence, and I'll collect results tomorrow. Hopefully, it works."

"Ah, that does sound promising."

"Details are in today's journal," he pointed to the table near the window. "I've asked him to prepare a formal presentation if it is."

Rosalind followed his direction to retrieve the journal. The prospect of a new deciding solution-one that worked-was really good news. They might have to rework all the calculations they'd done this entire week, but in the future, it could save them much more; her patience and energy, being the most to benefit. She lifted a few books, unable to find the one she was looking for.

"Which one?" It was a red one with green trim, if she wasn't mistaken. Maybe it was outside with Gwendolyn?

"Robert?"

She turned around, only to find him asleep, cheek pressed against the couch back, arms crossed, breathing deep and regular. She would find it amusing if she wasn't aware of how tired he was. Rather than wake him, she decided to get an afghan from upstairs and cover him. It was nearly 6pm, but there was still work to be done. For him, though, his day was over.

* * *

_A/N: Whew, I bet Robert's really glad that day is finally over._

_Things to consider for next chapter and beyond:_

_- What do you think Comstock has planned from his encounter with the tear? A hint: It ties in with one of Lady Comstock's voxophones._


	8. De futuro

**Chapter 8-De futuro **

"_About the future"_

* * *

**December 14, 1894, Friday**

By appearance they seemed three colleagues discussing their shared metier; two senior and one hoping to gain their favor. Robert felt it quite the opposite in the drawing room that morning. Two waited for the approval of one.

True to his word, they had granted the young chemist his formal presentation directly to them following the results of his compound yesterday. He had looked over the literature and was very pleased with the results. Now all that remained was Rosalind's review—and as she was head of the department, it was her approval that was needed. She did not make idle chatter, did not ask who his father was, how his mother faired in this weather, indeed, or even what his daily duties were at the Science Authority.

The situation created strong imagery for him. He was reminded, without his control, of his youth.

She was like a governess, with severe dress and uplifted brow, and they like two boys, nervous for the switch for not completing their letters. Her eyes automatically began scanning down the pages, reading carefully and studying every line, and Leander sat forward, hands nearly gripping his knees in anticipation.

Robert turned to offer a reassuring smile to him, but he was so attentive to Rosalind's every action. His tea remained untouched—perhaps he preferred coffee?—and Robert too, had all but forgotten the teacup suspended between the saucer and his lips.

She worked methodically, stopping in places to verify calculations, never once looking at either man. She flipped to the next page, repeating the careful process. Her silence, her reserved authority, was both unnerving and titillating. Yes, it was a much different feeling than his later school days, Headmaster hovering above his shoulder, ensuring each row of Georgics was written. He had never had a woman reign over him since his governess, and he had quickly surpassed her early on. For the next one to be Rosalind, who surpassed every man he had ever known both in life and in writing, well…

"So, an ethylene glycol solvent into the current sodium chloride solution to further depress the freezing point?" she started.

"Yes, ma'am," Leander answered immediately. "With an unprecedented-"

Rosalind glanced up from the papers and he paused, unsure if he was allowed to speak beyond a yes or no. "Ah, I'm sorry," he blurted, perhaps afraid he had spoiled his chances by speaking out of turn.

Robert thought he might have seen the corner of her mouth quirk, but it could have been a trick of the firelight. She inclined her head, an impassive expression about her face. "Continue."

With a nod, Leander sat up straighter. "Yes, with an unprecedented resistance to subfreezing temperatures. A sixty percent glycol and forty percent water will freeze at minus forty-nine Fahrenheit."

"I'm not too familiar with this compound used for this purpose. What is its original freezing point in its pure form?"

"About ten Fahrenheit, ma'am."

"Interesting," she mused. She put the presentation down in her lap and folded her hands over it. "Now, for obvious reasons, you have omitted in writing what brought you to pursue this experiment in the first place, but I'm interested. The state of the city reactors does not usually fall within your department division."

Robert looked solely to Leander now, interested as well. His new solution had come at the right moment, truly it was a blessing, but he was curious. Leander was young, quite possibly the youngest in the Chemistry department, if his memory served him best. Why had it been him and not more tenured gentlemen to not only identify the problem, but take the initiative to find a solution? For Newton it was an apple, for Rosalind, a dream.

"Well, to put it simply, Madame, I saw you and Mr. Lutece struggling with the reactors. I thought I could help."

He gave a small smile, but a number of emotions crossed his sharp features before he continued carefully. "Madame Lutece," he started, searching his shoes before meeting her eyes, "I…have not been in a place quite like this. And to work under extraordinary talents such as yourself and Mr. Lutece is truly inspiring. I may be but a chemist with no business in your work, but that does not mean mine cannot be used for yours."

"You flatter us, Mr. Sinclair." She smiled tightly, as if she was not accustomed to such praise. "But I think you do yourself a disservice to dismiss your work and innovation. Your formula will put many minds at ease, particularly ours."

Leander focused intently on her, face narrowed in concentration. Without that usual open enthusiasm he displayed, it could have been the face of his mythical namesake, determined to swim the Hellespont. It was a far cry from his wide-eyed intake of their home. He paid no mind to the coils beside his chair or the generator behind him.

"What impresses me most, beyond your work, is that you understand, perhaps better than some of our more _esteemed _colleagues, the true purpose of the Authority. This collection of sciences is meant to encourage cooperation and produce greater results."

Rosalind widened her smile. "Now," she continued, "We are very pleased with your work, and we'd like to incorporate it immediately into city function. Robert has spoken very highly of the actual results and of your assistance-" She paused here and acknowledged him. "With that, we are constructing a seasonal team that will be responsible for preparing and monitoring the city reactors during the winter. As you may have witnessed, it is particularly busy. We are offering you a position on this team with full control over the specifics and monitoring of your new integrated compound. This will be on top of your normal responsibilities with the Authority. You will report directly to us. Would you be willing to take on this post?"

She spoke quickly, concisely, without embellishment, and as she gave her conditions, the eagerness returned to the chemist's face in the form of a wide grin.

"Yes," he exclaimed, slender fingers gripping the armrest of his chair to keep him from springing up from it. "I would be honored to take on the responsibility."

With a wave of her hand she soothed him into a more agreeable state.

"In addition, a modest sum of funding and resources will be made available to you should you wish to pursue further studies for the project."

Their guest sat back in his chair now, fully affected by the sudden endowments extended to him. He took his tea haphazardly from the table beside him and took a large gulp, containing his surprise when he realized he had not put any sugar in it.

"Oh," he sputtered. "Forgive me," he said, retrieving his handkerchief, dabbing at his chin and waistcoat. "I'll be frank and tell you that I was not expecting anything like this when I prepared for this meeting."

"Yes, I suspect you weren't," Rosalind said distantly, and Robert thought briefly about why that was so.

Leander was well enough into his career to understand the unspoken requirements of garnering grants and what hindered him from it; his age, his chosen field, his unconventional ideas. Only a few years separated them, and Robert understood it all too well. The only person to uplift him had been himself.

"You'll find we don't fall within normal expectations, especially Rosalind," he said, grinning.

She seemed uncomfortable with the statement and gave him a frown.

"My apologies, Madame. I shall not make the mistake again."

"Not to worry, Mr. Sinclair," Rosalind smiled again. "We're just about finished here. Do you have any questions for us?"

With his mouth hung open, Leander looked like he had a plethora of questions, but he asked only, "When will the team start work?"

"Immediately. I will discuss the details of the team and introduce them at our division's meeting in a few hours. You'll meet afterwards. Tomorrow is the weekend, but you understand firsthand how urgent the matter is," she implied.

"Of course. I look forward to working with you and the other members." Truly he exuded an intensity that spoke of his enthusiasm.

"So do we," she said and stood, prompting the men to do so as well. She extended her hand to Leander. "Mr. Sinclair, it has been a pleasure."

"Yes, it has," he beamed, shaking both their hands.

"We'll see you later this afternoon," Robert said, walking him to the foyer. "You have a good day, Mr. Sinclair."

Leander nodded. "I shall. You and Madame Lutece as well." On his way out, he tipped his hat to Gwen and gave a different smile altogether. "A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Gwendolyn."

Robert stood behind her, and though he couldn't see her face, he could hear a certain interest in her response that he had not heard before with their other guests.

"Remember, the department meeting is at 1pm," he said after Leander left. "You have the rest of the day free after that."

"Of course," she nodded.

"Good. I thought it best to remind you, since last week was atypical. I doubt we'll be getting as much notices this afternoon as the rest of the week." The temperature this morning was notably higher than before, allowing him to rest easier. There were still fluctuations with reactors coming in to them, but at least the influx and the urgency had lightened to the point of attempting to return to a schedule that resembled normalcy. "If you need anything, Rosalind and I will be in the main room."

He left her to return back to Rosalind, who was still engaged in the drawing room, eyes poring over Leander's work. The rate at which she absorbed information was extraordinary, even better than his at times—and he need only look over something once thoroughly to recall it—but he understood that her action was the beginning of her unacknowledged habit that started on Friday mornings.

She was not _nervous_ for these weekly meetings; nervous would imply that she had no control over the situation, and he had never seen anyone wield as much control as she in an academia setting, but she became very critical of herself in those hours leading to it. She triple-checked her work, became almost irrational with her meticulousness. Her attire was at its most severe, often times, matching his, and for the briefest of windows, she was at her most frigid of temperaments.

The transformation was most jarring in his early days, and still, he looked upon these Friday mornings as a form of separation between them. The most obvious fact of it was that she held a position—two in fact—as head of the Physics division and of the higher Physical Sciences department. Try as she might to lobby and insist that he held it too without revealing their true nature, he was subordinate to her. And it was his insistence that raising him to her would be detrimental. Whispers of nepotism were the least of his concerns. He sat on a fine line of contentment and joy when he was in that lecture hall, brushing shoulders with the brightest gentlemen scientists, all surpassed by a woman more clever and brilliant than they. He might stand up and proclaim it all if only to see her brow unknit and gaze warm. Her cold piercing stare, so quick to find him and anchor him to his seat, was enough to wash those idyllic thoughts and prose from him completely.

Robert knew it best to just leave her be in these hours, although he was immensely curious of her thoughts on Leander. Gathering their used teacups and saucers, he asked quietly, "What's your opinion of him?"

The sound of papers lowering caught his attention, and he glanced up to see her stare at him with that same expression that had caused Leander to falter.

"Already?" she drawled.

He shrugged, all he could do in that intensity.

She clucked her tongue, looking wearily at the papers again. "His mathematics are impeccable, as is his grammar. Very formal."

Rosalind glanced at him again, knowing she had not given him the answer he wanted. "He's very…_eager_?" she tried, and she nodded. "Yes. He's eager." She thought a moment longer. "But he's also very observant. A valuable trait."

"He reminds me of myself. When I was younger," he added quickly.

She perked an eyebrow, but she was still irascible. "Feeling nostalgic? At your ripe old age?"

It was almost a jeer, her tone bordering mockery.

"Hardly," he scoffed. It was unwise to attempt speaking to her in this condition, especially about his time before crossing over, but he felt strongly about what they were doing with Leander. They had the opportunity to propel his career.

"Does this have anything to do with your eagerness to use his compound?"

"_No,_" he clarified. "You have his work in your hands, seen the results. I'd have approved of his method even if Fink presented it to me."

She gave him a look, though this time her expression softened slightly into a more pleasing one, that she thought the idea preposterous.

"_You know what I mean,_" Robert muttered. "I'd be mildly suspicious, naturally, but regardless, I'd still use it if it meant greater efficiency. And we know Fink approves of _that _if nothing else."

"True."

She fell silent, going back to her preparations. Robert lifted the tray and started his way to the kitchen.

"I—er…What do you think about all this?" she said suddenly.

He halted. "About?"

"About giving this all to Leander. So quickly. It's very unorthodox."

"Well," he started, placing the tray down, "There may be some wounded pride, perhaps even rumors that you play favorites."

Rosalind looked annoyed, but no longer with him. "I don't see why. It shows that hard work, ingenuity, and cooperation are rewarded. Not age or career length. Or names," she added derisively.

_Or gender_, Robert finished in his mind. "It could also mean we become inundated with every idea, good or bad."

"And when we turn them down, what then?" she posed. "More wound-licking, but better ideas. And _eagerness_."

He considered it a moment, not particularly fond of what was to come. "It will be a while until those results show, but yes."

He picked up the tray once more, intent on letting her be undisturbed, as he usually found worked best, but she called to him, "Um, could you perhaps look through these and make sure I've not made any errors?"

Looking at her face suddenly, he saw her ferocity tamed and replaced with a slight vexing concern. She had never directly asked for his help in her meeting preparations before.

Robert smiled gently. "Of course."

* * *

She always began with a simple '_Good afternoon, Gentlemen', _never louder than normal speaking volume.

The clamor of formalities exchanging ceased immediately, and there was the shuffling of men in their seats, of sporadic sniffs and coughs, exaggerated by the weather this time of year.

"Good afternoon, Madame," they chorused.

Taking a place in the front row, the farthest seat on the right, Robert wondered if it was always like this in the beginning, this immediate obedience. Had they been cold, uninviting? Had she done some strong-arm demonstration to establish her dominance? Of course, this was not university or some dissertation review. She had reviewed _them_, before the city had even risen. They had no choice but to accept her as their superior, and she was a fine one at that.

Perhaps it was that etiquette trumped pride. No man dared forget their manners in front of a lady, not in open view of his peers. The thought prompted another one, one he hadn't thought before: had his presence affected their behavior in anyway? He might never know the answer as he'd never bring it up with her, casually or otherwise. Sifting through her memories was not an option either. Best not to have an incident here, then she'd have _real_ reason to direct her ire at him. The issue was not important, anyway. This was quite a charming group of men. Perhaps Rosalind's mood was affecting him.

Attentions focused, she skipped the pleasantries, beyond acknowledging Dr. Pelletier, Science Authority Director and Head of Health and Human Services Department, who was sitting in today. She broke her stony facade momentarily to give the older gentleman a genial smile; she thought very highly of him, and so did he. Or was that Rosalind's memory influencing his again?

Robert rubbed at his temple, banishing his weariness and any thoughts born of it that could incite another episode. He was immensely glad they were transferring the bulk of the reactor upkeep onto a group of individuals and not just he and Rosalind. He didn't think he could handle the weight of it much longer.

She began with the usual point of order; review of last week's details, an outline of today's. He knew much of it already. She offered the floor to Mr. Isaman and Mr. Gardner to speak on their respective department divisions. Mr. Isaman, balding crown reflecting the sun that shone through the glass roof, spoke only of the Chemistry division's need for replacement bulbs for their spectroscopes. Mr. Gardner reported that the Mathematics division was doing well, no issues at the moment, or at least that was what Robert thought he said. Sometimes it was difficult to understand the man's harsh staccato no matter if he spoke slowly. German was not his best or favorite language.

Rosalind thanked their colleagues and spoke now of the Physics division, which itself did not have any pertinent issues that needed to be addressed on the agenda. Their labs, though independent, fell under the umbrella of the authority whenever the city was involved, and so she spoke of the current issue with the reactors. It was a continuing discussion for the past few weeks, increasing in length each meeting as the winter presented itself.

Since he already knew what she was to say about the matter-_God knows he lived it_-he turned his head casually to survey the sea of gentlemen. They leaned forward in their chairs, eager to hear the latest, even those who had not been affected by it in the slightest. He suspected it was an underlying primal fear of falling. A city in the sky was only good if it stayed afloat, and men slept soundly if they knew it did.

"I'm very pleased that one of our colleagues has developed a deicing compound able to handle the extreme temperatures that affect us at this altitude," she revealed.

Heads angled and a low buzz of whispers started as they tried to determine who among them had the honor of pleasing Madame Lutece. She seemed to know it too, because there was a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips when she said, "Mr. Sinclair, would you care to elucidate us briefly on your compound?"

All eyes fixed on Leander in the fourth row, and he sprang up from his chair. "Certainly." He smoothed his jacket, buttoning up as he came to the front of the room. "Thank-you, Ma'am."

As he began to share his work, Robert examined him more fully. He was much more confident now that his father and brother were absent, although with his serious expression and posture, he was stricken with how much he now resembled them beyond the biological. Interesting how that was, how people assumed the habits of those around them, especially since it was usually without conscious thought.

And he glanced at Rosalind again, without _his_ conscious thought, he found. Who had she developed habits from? There were many they shared. The both of them tilted their head when they stared at the chalkboard, or shuffled a pen across the desk to convince themselves they weren't idle. But according to Rosalind, _he_ only ran his hand over his chin in deep thought like Father, or scratched at the place where his jaw met his neck. That may be the case, but _she_ only hovered like Mother and scowled like Father until she got what she wanted. She used them in conjunction to create an entirely new mannerism that was solely her own. His father and mother never commanded such presence like she did.

As she rose again to speak once more and address the learned men, she looked to him like a red-haired monarch of old England from the pages of his schoolboy lessons, poised, yet defiant to let tradition dictate her life.

"So in the wake of Mr. Sinclair's compound, we will go ahead with implementing a seasonal team to handle the reactors…"

"Good, good." Beside him, Edward Carlyle muttered his enthusiasm, no doubt the reason being he had only seen him Tuesday for a reactor. A simple man in the Mathematics division, Robert knew him professionally and remembered him easily because he and the four other mathematicians in the seats down the row were the smallest of their department.

"…This team will report directly to myself, and will be responsible for several duties. I've discussed it already in passing with those of you that have expressed interest in a position on it and with Mr. Isaman and Gardner to finalize the selection. Now-" She paused. "_Yes?_" Rosalind dared the person who chose to interrupt her with a raised hand to speak.

Robert couldn't see who it was exactly from his angle, but a voice, with a tone dangerously close to implying something, spoke.

"Has the compound already been tested? It seems so quick between this week and the last that something is ready for use without proper time for development and testing. Authority standard of operations states that-"

"—_That_," she cut him off, and several men, stunned, snapped their eyes to her, "All new developments must first be presented formally with proper documentation and preliminary tests before approval by at least one division head and Head of Department. Yes, we are all well-versed on standard procedure here, Mr. Whitman," she said coldly.

She gave him a withering glance, and even from the front row, Robert could see the man visibly shrink in his chair. Rosalind let the stunned silence hang for a bit. There was an expression of hardness and dominance about her face, and it secretly delighted him like earlier; how a single look from her had reduced a man to humiliated silence.

"Gentlemen," she said. "Please raise your hands if you have been directly or indirectly affected by the weather's effect on the reactors; if you have spent a sleepless night as your residence sunk several feet below benchmark."

Over half, quite possibly three-fourths of the men in the lecture hall raised their hands. Whitman, who did not raise his, sunk lower in his chair.

"Thank-you. You may put your hands down." Looking at her challenger once again, she continued. "In answer to your question, Mr. Whitman, yes. Mr. Sinclair's compound has been tested in the freezing early hours of the morning. As you've just witnessed, the urgency and need of such a solution is palpable. And as I've just explained _before_ you interrupted, both Mr. Isaman and Mr. Gardner as division heads have given their approval, as have I. It is a bit unorthodox in the manner of its exposition, but the appropriate steps were still taken to ensure the best interests of the city. I apologize that this bothers you so much, but when _you_ present a viable solution to any problem to the Authority, we'll make sure that it follows _standard procedure,_" she added. "Are there any more questions?"

A hush had overcome the lecture hall and not even a cough or sniff broke the heavy silence. He couldn't speak for the other men in the room, but his silence was one of admiration. He had never seen her this volatile, this fierce. He yearned, in the deepest part of him, to see her at the beginning of her career, when she fought the hardest. Her fury was not unbridled. Pure, honed, polished, swift; it was like Father's prized rapier, precious and powerful once its skill was displayed. Robert wasn't sure what had overcome him so suddenly to think these things.

"Now," Rosalind said again, as if she had not been interrupted, "The team will consist of six people, two from each division. If you've been chosen, please have a seat in the front row after I've dismissed everyone. For the rest of us, there will be no department meeting next week in lieu for the Authority Christmas luncheon and the start of the holiday. Our next meeting will be on the 28th. Thank-you very much for your attention. You are dismissed."

When she was finished, everyone stood up and began their usual chatter. There was a manner of excitement now than prior to the meeting. Men spoke about the team, about the return to normal routines, and of the upcoming holiday. Robert stayed his chair for the new team members while Rosalind fielded any private questions. Carlyle was one of the chosen, and he turned excitedly in his seat towards him.

"Were you part of the decision process, Mr. Lutece?"

He adjusted himself in his seat to face him. "Yes, I was."

Carlyle smiled. "Thank-you very much for considering me. I expressed my interest, but didn't think I'd be chosen."

Robert leaned in, grinning. "Actually, I was the one to finalize your selection," he revealed. "Your work on the spatial anomaly a few months ago was very dynamic and adaptive. We'll be needing much of that for the project."

"I'm- thank-you!" Carlyle said, nearly flustered by the comment. Robert thought he shouldn't be. After all, the man's work was impressive. Why shouldn't he be chosen?

"You have only yourself to thank, Edward. Rosalind and I are only recognizing your hard work."

Indeed, they were. This was probably an external influence of the citizens once again, but he thought there was no better place for he and Rosalind to revolutionize the field of science. So much was new and ripe for redirection, but it was still apparent by Leander and Carlyle's reactions that much work had to be done for that to occur.

In the seat next to Carlyle, Marcus Spencer, the other mathematician chosen for the team, sat quietly, but listened to their conversation.

"Spencer!" Robert called out, if only to prevent Carlyle from thanking him again. Not that he was displeased, but people thanked him far more than necessary for the most logical of things. "Good to have you, man. I was telling Carlyle about the significance of Authority work being a factor in the decision process. Your rigorous reworking of Dirichlet's diagrams and proofs are what we considered, as was your ability to spot the flaws in them. We cannot afford any mistakes where the city is concerned." He offered both of them his hand. "I hope I'm not stealing Rosalind's introduction, but I am looking forward to working with the both of you."

He glanced at Rosalind to see if she was ready to start with the team. She was conversing with Dr. Pelletier, but she caught his eye and smiled for the first time at him that morning. They talked for a few moments more, and she finally made her way over. Her icy demeanor was beginning to thaw, he noticed. It put him in a better mood, and it was also an invitation to join her side once more. He stood up to speak with them.

"Good afternoon," she greeted the smaller group. Besides Carlyle and Spencer from Mathematics, there was Leander and George Peterson from Chemistry, and Ashley Eames and Claude Warren from their own Physics; many young faces stared back. Warren and Spencer were the most senior, in their thirties with their own families. Hopefully, that wouldn't divide them too much. "The six of you have been chosen because we think you are the best choices for this important project. I don't need to reiterate the priority of this for the city."

"We believe you can not only handle the extra work, but produce the best results," Robert said. "We will be candid-"

"-There will be long nights and early mornings. If you believe you cannot handle the demands-"

"-Feel free to come to us-"

"-There is no shame in admitting this job will be too much-"

"-Because it _will_ be demanding."

They paused and looked at each team member allowing them time to speak, but it looked more that they were a bit taken aback by their speech pattern, than of the information.

"Good," Rosalind said, the corner of her mouth perking. "I suspected as much."

Robert opened the folio he was carrying and distributed a document packet to each of them.

"Today is mostly for us to get acquainted. There is no work to begin at this moment to allow you to finish your remaining duties for the week."

"If you'll take a look over these packets tonight, we can begin preliminary work tomorrow afternoon right back here. Is that arrangement sufficient for everyone?"

Whether it was or not, Robert was fairly certain no one was going to object. They all gave their confirmation.

"Well, then," she bowed her head. "I wish you all a very pleasant rest of the day."

Their new team gathered their things and made sure to thank both of them before they left, conversing animatedly between themselves in the way challenging work usually created. It left him in high spirits that they had made the best decision selecting these people. Apparently so did Rosalind. She watched them for a moment and smiled at him in the empty lecture hall.

"Shall we get some lunch?" she asked.

Robert presented her his arm, a growing grin on his face. "Let's."

* * *

**_A/n:_**

_Whew. Thanks for being patient everyone as I worked out this chapter. This is the longest one so far and the most difficult for me to write._

_Thinking ahead:_

_-With Robert and Rosalind's new positions in Columbia, do you think they'll be able to impact the science community in ways that they've always wanted to?_

_- And with the issue of the reactors mostly solved, they can return their attention back to other things, like infusions, and the Christmas party! Hrrmm. Shopping seems to fit in there as well._


End file.
